


All the King's Horses

by Marvels



Series: The Weight of Living [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Lydia Martin Friendship, Alpha Scott McCall, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Banshee Lydia Martin, Detox, Drug Withdrawal, F/M, Hurt Lydia, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, PTSD, Pack Feels, Protective Stiles, Schizophrenia, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Season 4 AU, Some Stalia but Stydia is endgame, eichen house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marvels/pseuds/Marvels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since her best friend’s death, Lydia has been on a downward spiral. But Scott and Stiles are so caught up with their own healing that they haven’t noticed her continuous disintegration. That is, they didn't notice until Lydia's mother pulled her out of school and sent her to Eichen House to be treated for paranoid schizophrenia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Fine At All

_“Allison?” Lydia’s voice was hoarse and dry. Her eyes widened as she watched the samurai sword run through her best friend’s body. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. The mantra of denial ran through Lydia’s head, keeping tempo with the rapid pounding of her heart against her ribs. And yet she was seeing Allison die in Scott’s arms in the Oak Creek camp. Lydia felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she angrily rubbed them away with the heels of her hands._

_“This isn’t happening right now, it’s just a dream,” Lydia spat angrily. Both Scott and Allison froze in front of her and turned slowly to face her._

_“Lydia, why did you let this happen?” Scott asked, tears streaming freely down his face. Lydia’s confidence wavered._

_“It’s a dream, I’m just dreaming and I’m going to wake up now,” Lydia said, her voice trembling. Not exactly the conviction that she was going for. She dug her fingernails into her palms, begging herself to just wake up._

_“You killed her, Lydia.” Scott was sobbing now, cradling her best friend’s body against his, shoulders shaking with his cries, forehead pressed against Allison’s._

_“I didn’t…”_

_“You killed her.” Stiles had joined the fray, his eyes sunken and pained as he approached Scott, leaving Lydia to kneel alone several yards away._

_“I told her not to come,” Lydia whispered. “I left her a message.”_

_“She wouldn’t have been involved at all if it wasn’t for you,” Stiles said, looking down at his mourning best friend with heavy sadness in his eyes._

_“That’s not… I can’t… I’m so sorry,” Lydia said quietly, her voice cracking as her tears began to spill over._

_“You can’t fix this, Lydia. We can’t be around you anymore,” Stiles explained, grief and anger filling the pale angles of his face._

_“Please let me try,” she begged. “Let me fix this.”_

_“You can’t fix this Lydia. All you can do is scream,” Stiles said bitterly, shaking his head. Beside him, Allison shuddered out her final breath and Scott curled more tightly around her, his sobs growing louder. Stiles eyed Lydia sadly, angrily. “So go ahead. Do it.”_

_She screamed._

* * *

 “Lydia!” Lydia’s eyes shot open and she startled awake. Her mother was standing in front of her with a plate of grilled chicken in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other, her eyebrows contracted and her mouth pinched into a thin, worrisome line.

“What?” Lydia snapped back irritably.

“I asked you which piece of chicken you wanted,” Her mother said with a slightly offended tone to her voice. Lydia did her best to contain the look of shock and confusion on her face when she found herself sitting at the dinner table in her kitchen. When Lydia didn’t immediately respond to her question, Mrs. Martin sighed exasperatedly and picked out a charred chicken breast from the serving plate and put it in front of Lydia next to the cooked kale and wild rice. “Honestly, Lydia, I’m getting a little worried. I know that Allison died just a few months back, but you’re still so distant, are you feeling okay?” Lydia chose not to respond to her mother’s question. The last time she was honest with her mother about something surrounding the supernatural, she had found herself in Ms. Morrell’s office on a biweekly basis to talk about her “hallucinations” and “black-outs.”

“Honey, please, I just-”

“I’m not hungry, Mom, I’m going upstairs.” Lydia pushed back her chair and deftly slid past her mother. She heard her mom stutter over something, before the kitchen behind her lapsed into silence. Lydia felt a pang of guilt for leaving her mom alone like that, but she needed to clear her head.

“You can’t keep this up, Lyds. You gotta eat sometime,” a familiar, soothing voice reasoned. Lydia shook her head and sped up to a run, bursting into her room, locking the door behind her and sliding down against the it until she was sitting on the floor, knees to her chest, chin tucked, arms hugging her knees.

“Lydia,” the voice came again.

“Go away, I don’t want to hear you,” Lydia whispered in response.

“Lydia.”

“No, I’m not listening.”

“Lydia.”

“Please leave me alone,” Lydia’s voice came as a whimper this time. “Please. I’m so sorry.”

“Lydia, open your eyes,” The voice coaxed. Lydia only screwed her eyes shut tighter and shook her head, forehead rocking side to side on her knees.

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Open your eyes, Lydia.” Slowly, involuntarily, Lydia lifted her head and let her eyes crack open. Allison was standing in front of her, blood on her shirt and a vacant look on her face. Her mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. Shaking, Lydia buried her head in her knees again.

“Just go away, Allison, I’m sorry, go away, go away, go away,” Lydia begged, her voice a low moan. When she next looked up, Allison was gone. But the emptiness her visage left inside Lydia still remained. Lydia was vaguely aware of the sound of her mother’s footsteps in the hall outside her room but she couldn’t bring herself to focus on that.

When she stopped shaking enough to catch her breath and steady her hands, she crawled up onto her bed and fished her phone out of her purse. Never mind that she was getting thrown in and out of fugue states in the middle of the day (she distantly wondered how she made the three mile trip home from school), she had been seeing Allison for weeks now, and her fear was overwhelming the preemptive guilt she felt for sharing this burden. Hesitantly, she hit speed dial 2, and brought the phone up to her ear. After a few brief rings, she was directed to voicemail.

“Hey this is Stiles, sorry I can’t answer, leave a message or text me and I’ll get back to you soon.” The familiar voice brought a rush of warmth over Lydia, even though she knew it was just a recording. When the beep following his message faded, Lydia swallowed, her mouth suddenly cottony and dry.

“Hi Stiles, it’s Lydia. I just… Call me back when you get this. I think a banshee thing has been happening and I… I don’t know what to… Just call me, okay?” Lydia ended the call and flopped down onto her back on the bed, a hand covering her face and swallowing a groan. Her head hurt. She rolled over and shook three pills out of the bottle of ibuprofen on her nightstand. While she had initially been tentative about taking such a high dosage considering her size, she had long since quelled that fear. Her headaches came daily now. She wondered silently what would happen if she took four. The throbbing behind her skull urged her to find out. She poured out an additional pill and swallowed it dry with the rest of them.

Although she laid back on her bed, Lydia wasn’t prepared to sleep. On the contrary, she slept an average of four hours each night, often less. It was horrible for her complexion, her hair, and her temperament, but when she slept, she dreamed, or god forbid, traveled in her fugue state. Until recently, she was perfectly content to stay awake, even if her waking hours were miserable. But now, her nightmares and fugue states were chasing her in broad daylight. This was the fourth time she had seen Allison in the past week, eighteenth time in the past month.

She considered venturing out, going to Stiles’ house or Scott’s. Sometimes their presence helped ease her guilt. She fished her phone out of her purse and composed a text to Scott. She couldn’t bring herself to leave a message for Stiles and text him. She felt desperate enough already.

 _7:03 pm: Lydia: Hey Scott are you and stiles doing anything tonight?_ A couple of minutes later, she got the reply she had both grown to fear and accept.

 _7:08 pm: Scott: Hey Lydia! Me and Kira are doubling with Stiles and Malia! You can meet up with us later when we hit the movies if you want._ So that’s why Stiles hadn’t picked up. Lydia pushed down the jealous feelings building up in her throat and threw out a quick response.

 _7:11 pm: Lydia: that’s alright ill leave you guys to it and catch up with you tomorrow at school._ She took a few deep breaths and rolled off her bed to change into pajamas.

Her makeup was removed and her hair in a lazy bun when her phone buzzed a rapid pattern on her nightstand. In her phone, Lydia had customized the vibration pattern to read as Morse code for the names of different contacts so she would know who was texting or calling without having to look at the screen. This particular vibration was Scott’s. The only people who had ever warranted their own vibrations were Jackson, Allison, Scott and Stiles. Even her mother had been grouped with the generic “miscellaneous others” vibration.

 _7:21 pm: Scott: Okay if you’re sure. We’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t run out on last period like you did today tho Stiles was really worried when we couldn’t reach you!_ Lydia scoffed, both at the text and at the way Scott’s words warmed her up. Stiles was always worried, she told herself. He was literally always in a state of anxiety. It didn’t mean anything that he was worried.

After she was convinced that her positive response had properly suffocated any indication of her true emotional state, she laid back down in bed on her side, staring at her closet door, waiting for her headache to subside. She had found a cozy position and was admittedly getting close to dozing off when a timid knock came at her door. She was instantly on red alert.

“Who is it?” Lydia asked, voice hitching slightly, her nerves getting the best of her.

“Lydia, it’s your mother.” The voice coming through the door sounded hurt, and Lydia somehow kept herself from mimicking her mom’s sad tone.

“Come in,” Lydia allowed. Her mom came in wrapped in a light sweater, hugging her arms to her chest. Lydia noticed their landline phone in her hand and she gave her mom a sharp look. “What?” She asked pointedly.

“You’re going to leave school early tomorrow. I think you’re a little overstressed so we’re going to get massages together. My treat,” Her mom said with a weak smile. Lydia returned the smile briefly before giving her mother a hard look. Mrs. Martin was a terrible liar, and Lydia could tell that she was lying. Lydia wished that she knew what about.

“Thanks Mom,” Lydia said quietly. Her mom smiled again. Lydia did not.

* * *

 

Stiles pulled up to Beacon Hills the following morning and he gave the parking lot a furtive look trying to find Lydia’s car among a sea of school buses, but it was late enough in the morning that the heavy pedestrian traffic blocked most of his view. Malia slid out of the passenger seat and walked around to Stiles’ door, watching him.

“What are you looking for?” She asked. He glanced down at her momentarily, scanned the parking lot once again, then hopped out of the jeep to land in front of her.

“Just looking for Scott or Lydia,” He said easily. He didn’t know why he felt that he had to add Scott’s name to the mix, but it felt safer somehow. Malia and Lydia hadn’t spent much time together, but whenever he mentioned Lydia, it agitated Malia. Given her very recent upgrade to “human,” agitating Malia could result in some pretty fierce temper tantrums.

“Well they’re probably inside, we got a late start,” Malia said, a smirk playing on her lips as she twined her fingers together with his. She planted a chaste kiss on his lips, but tugged gently on his lower lip as she pulled away. Stiles swallowed hard. She was getting better at this human thing.

“Yeah.. inside. In school. Going into school, right?” He chastised her gently. She pouted but nodded in agreement. No lip-tugging at school. They’d established that already. But they continued holding hands as they walked towards their lockers. Kira and Scott were already at Scott’s locker, their faces only inches apart as they spoke quietly to each other. They were both smiling.

“Good morning!” Stiles said loudly, giving the couple fair warning to break apart. Kira blushed at the interruption but Scott just smiled.

“Hey Stiles, Malia.”

“Who’s going to explain last night’s precalc to me?” Malia said by means of a hello. She pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil along with her precalc book. Stiles looked at her with exasperation.

“You said you did your precalc before we went to the movies,” He said, his eyebrows contracting and an exhausted, patronizing smile twisting his lips. Malia smirked momentarily before hugging her book to her chest, arms crossed, hip popped to one side.

“If I’d told the truth then we wouldn’t have gone to the movies at all!” She reasoned. Scott grinned broadly while Kira tried to stifle her smile.

“Yeah, ‘cause your education is more important!” Stiles quipped, gesturing at the school around them.

“Precalc is boring and you know it. I’m already good at percentages and tips, so it shouldn’t matter from now on, right?” Malia asked. The quirk of her lips told Stiles that she knew she was being a pain in the ass. He huffed out a sigh and dramatically pulled out his homework from the night before.

“I hope you know that your weekend has now been put on lockdown for mandatory precalc review,” Stiles said grudgingly, handing over his sloppy, but ultimately well-executed version of the homework.

“Yeah, okay,” Malia snickered dubiously, plucking the paper out of Stiles’ hand. She put her own blank paper on top of her textbook, sat down on the floor with her back against the lockers and began to copy Stiles’ work. She gripped her pencil clumsily and her face was contorted into an almost painful expression of concentration. At times like this, Stiles was reminded of just how much time Malia had lost as a coyote, and his heart ached a little.

“Hey, Lydia!” Stiles’ head whipped around, following the direction of Scott’s voice. Lydia was approaching them with a tight smile, her fingers gripping her plastic travel coffee cup like it was a lifeline. Her gait was barely a shuffle, her purple Toms dusty and scuffed from dragging on the floor.

“Hi guys, how was your movie?” Lydia asked amiably, hefting her purse a little higher on her shoulder. Her eyes darted to Stiles, then down to Malia, then they settled more comfortably on Scott and Kira.

“It was fine, nothing special,” Kira said quickly, giving Lydia a look that Stiles interpreted as fraternal. Stiles recalled how Kira had been raving about the Tarantino film after walking out of the theater the night before, the most enthusiastic of the group, and he felt a rush of affection towards her. Lydia graced Kira with a slightly warmer smile than before, clearly noting the effort as well.

“I liked it a lot,” Malia noted from the floor, her eyes still glued to the page in front of her. The tense concentration in her voice clearly communicating her frustration with the quantity of problems she had to copy. A brief silence took the group.

“Where did you go yesterday afternoon, Lydia?” Scott asked in a valiant effort to change the subject.

“Yeah, I was supposed to give you a ride home, remember?” Stiles added, his head tilting curiously as he asked.

“Right, sorry. I forgot, I... had an appointment.” Lydia spoke slowly and deliberately, as if making up her mind about where she had been as she went along. Scott and Stiles exchanged a quick glance which warranted an eye roll from Lydia.

“An appointment?” Scott asked dubiously.

“A meeting with a medical professional at a predetermined time, Scott, yes,” Lydia said grouchily.

“What kind of appointment?” Stiles ribbed.

“Gynecologist,” Lydia snapped instinctively.

“Oh god, yes,” Kira huffed a breath of laughter before swallowing it, lips tightly pinched together. Scott and Stiles both floundered, trying to backtrack.

“Wow, I’m sorry-”

“I didn’t mean to get all up in your business- shit! I mean-”

“No more prying from Scott and Stiles,” Scott said, blushing and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. But while Scott may have gone red in the ears, Stiles was flushing beet red. He couldn’t bring himself to look any higher than her feet.

“Yeah, sorry,” He muttered. The first warning bell echoed through the halls and saved the conversation from further disaster. Kira and Lydia departed for physics while Scott and Stiles and Malia made their way to Spanish class, but not before Scott planted a quick kiss on Kira’s cheek and mumbled another apology to Lydia.

“What’s a gynecologist?” Malia asked with genuine curiosity. Scott looked at Stiles, his mouth clamped shut in an attempt to mask the amusement that was contorting his expression.

“You can ask Lydia later, if you really want to know,” Stiles said decidedly. Malia seemed disgruntled by his non-response, but contained her disappointment appropriately. As they settled into their seats, Scott leaned over to Stiles and nudged his arm.

“You don’t think she actually had an appointment, do you?” Stiles asked before Scott could say a word. He pulled out a spiral notebook before looking up at Scott, his lips pressed into a fine line.

“Her heartbeat indicated that she was lying. I just didn’t realize until...” Scott replied in a hushed tone. Stiles sighed and looked over at Scott, a frustrated frown pulling at his lips.

“Yeah, thinking back, I wasn’t getting super honest vibes off her either. And… did you notice? She wasn’t wearing heels? When was the last time you saw Lydia at her actual five-foot-three?” Stiles said, chewing on his lower lip, a hint of concern coloring his voice. He’d been staring at her shoes, after all. It had been glaringly obvious to him.

“That’s… I didn’t even notice. Do you think she’s alright? Maybe I should talk to her,” Scott said, his eyebrows drawing together in a pained expression, his body tensing up.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Scott,” Stiles said soothingly. He knew how agitated his friend could get when he was concerned for one of the pack members. “I’ll talk to her in history, or after school, alright?” Scott nodded his approval, but his leg continued to bounce in an annoyingly tense way under his desk.

“The sooner the better,” Scott agreed. They sat in a tense silence momentarily before Stiles looked over at Scott again with a slight smirk.

“You’ve got to give her props for thinking on her feet though. Gynecologist. Brilliant,” He chuckled, causing Scott’s ears to go pink again.

“She’s… smart,” Scott huffed in consensus. “She’s still got that going for her.”

“She’s something,” Stiles agreed, his smile broadening as he leaned back in his chair and turned to face the front of the room. He let his gaze gloss over to his other side where Malia was sitting and he caught sight of the disapproving scowl she was shooting his way. He stopped smiling immediately and glued his eyes back on the blackboard, but the corners of his lips still twitched with amusement despite his best efforts.

* * *

 

“So where were you actually?” Kira asked once they were a suitable distance away from Scott and Malia’s wolf hearing. Lydia eyed Kira warily. “If you’d rather I don’t know, I don’t have to know.” Kira amended. Lydia sighed and pulled Kira by the sleeve into the nearest bathroom and after ensuring it was empty, she ran a hand through her hair.

“I don’t remember leaving yesterday afternoon. The last thing I remember was getting up at lunch to walk to French-” A lump formed in her throat. She used to have that class with Allison. “And the next thing I know its seven at night and I’m at the dinner table with my mom.” Kira studied her worriedly.

“You didn’t end up at a dead body though, did you?” Kira asked in a hushed tone.

“No, but my fugue states don’t always bring me to a body. I mean they have since I’ve gotten better at controlling them, but I feel like I’m losing control again. Like I’m going backwards,” Lydia explained, trying to control the fear that colored her voice. Kira took a moment to consider what was happening, then shook her head.

“I wish I knew how to help you, Lydia, I really do,” Kira said, holding eye contact under furrowed brows before dropping her gaze. “But you’ve got to tell Scott and Stiles. They’ll want to help you. And they’ll probably know more about banshees than I do.” Lydia nodded in affirmation.

“I tried to call Stiles last night to talk about it-” _And about seeing Allison._ “-but you guys were out.”

“Talk to him today. I think Malia’s staying after school to get more help in a bunch of classes and we don’t have lacrosse practice,” Kira suggested. Lydia sighed and shook her head.

“That would be perfect, but I’m spending the afternoon with my mom today,” Lydia said, irritated just by the thought of it.

“Then tomorrow. Or tonight,” Kira said, gesturing wildly with her hands but failing to look up from her feet. “If this is out of the ordinary for you, you need to tell someone.” Lydia nodded in resigned agreement, then nodded her head at the door towards the hall.

“Let’s get to class. I’ll talk to one of them about it tonight.”

“I’m holding you to that, Martin,” Kira said with a joking scowl.

“Calm down Yukimura, we’ve got oscillatory motion to test.” 

* * *

 

Just as the bell released Lydia’s French class for lunch, a text from her mom lit up her phone.

 _Mom: 11:55 am: Just called to excuse you from the rest of your classes, I’m waiting out front!_ Lydia’s face twitched slightly, half into a smile, half into a grimace at the text. She still hadn’t quite figured out what her mother’s ulterior motives were here, but even as sleep deprived as she was, she knew that something was amiss.

Lydia stopped at her locker briefly to dump all of the homework she’d already completed for the following day. She’d planned to get away quickly and not talk to the group, not address her absence, and especially not talk to Stiles. Their relationship had been strained at best as of late, and Lydia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge why that was. She had a hallucination a couple of weeks ago where Allison mentioned the strain between her and Stiles.

_“Lydie, you know why you don’t like being around him anymore,” Allison had said calmly. She hadn’t been bleeding out that time. She had seemed so normal, so real that Lydia had wanted to just reach out and hug her. But she wouldn’t break like that. So she contented herself with talking._

_“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Lydia had said, pursing her lips and squinting at her hallucination in mock offense._

_“You’re jealous.”_

_“You’re a hallucination, I don’t think you’re exactly the one who should be coaching me on mental and emotional stability,” Lydia had snapped back._

_“You realize that you waited too long. That you had someone who really cared about you on the line, and you didn’t know it until it was too late, and he wasn’t yours anymore,” Allison had chided her softly._

_“That’s ridiculous.”_

_“Then why don’t you act the same around Stiles anymore?”_

_“Because he doesn’t act the same around me!” Lydia had shrieked. Hallucinatory Allison barely batted an eye. She just sat there at Lydia’s desk, smiling at her sagely until Lydia had blinked, and Allison disappeared._

Lydia shuddered slightly at the memory, if only because Allison had felt so real. She slammed her locker shut and turned to walk out to the front entrance, but saw Stiles walking in the opposite direction, towards the lunch room behind her. He gave her a taxi-hailing wave and yelled her name to attract her attention, making her jump. He was beaming all the while, which Lydia noted to be the most enthusiastic greeting than she’d seen from him in months.

“Lyds, where you headed? Lunch is that-a-way,” Stiles said, pointing helpfully at the cafeteria behind her. She squeezed out a tight, fake smile.

“I have lunch with my French class today. Croissants and Huguenots is the topic, I think,” Lydia lied smoothly, a hint of humor in her tone to keep things light. She didn’t want to explain why her mother thought it was so important to pull her out of school early. That would involve Stiles needing to get up to speed on a lot of things that she couldn’t talk about in the crowded halls of high school. Stiles deflated slightly at her answer

“Oh, cool,” he said. He put on a fake smile to match her own. She started to break away from the conversation, but he caught her by the upper arm and backed up a step so she was still facing him.

“If… if something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?” He asked, his voice dropping in volume and pitch. His eyes radiated an intensity that Lydia had only seen a few times before.

“Yeah, I mean, don’t worry about it, Stiles,” Lydia said, realizing only after the words left her mouth that she had confirmed the underlying fact that there was something wrong. Although if the damn boy just checked his voicemail, he’d have known that already. His hand squeezed her arm gently.

“Can we talk about it?” He asked, his breath ruffling her hair and overwhelming her with his warm, familiar scent.

“If you want to,” Lydia said passively. Noting his persistent level of intensity, she added, “tonight, maybe? We shouldn’t talk about it here. Just text me.” Stiles relented with a nod, and slowly loosened his grasp on her arm. Lydia noticed how slowly his fingers fell away, tracing delicately down the back of her tricep as if unwilling to lose the physical contact between them. Her eyes darted up to meet his again, and she noticed how close they were standing, their faces only a foot apart, with him hunched over slightly to minimize the distance between their faces. His gaze was suffocating, yet she couldn’t find the strength to look away.

“I’ll talk to you later then,” Stiles said softly, his breath catching slightly as he seemed to realize their proximity. He straightened up and took a half step back before shooting her a hesitant, but nonetheless genuine smile. “Take care, Lyds.”

“See you later, Stiles,” she responded, the corners of her mouth twitching towards a smile. He gave a last nod before stepping back around her to walk towards the cafeteria. Lydia took a deep breath before shaking her head and bustling off towards the front office, mentally chastising herself. She shouldn’t have let him stand so close. She shouldn’t have made plans to talk to him that night. She shouldn’t have called him the day before. He wasn’t hers anymore. Not that she had ever acknowledged that he had been hers in the first place. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly to clear her head before heading into the front office to sign out.

Her mother was parked and waiting for her out front, just like she had promised. Mrs. Martin was wrapped in a thin black sweater, wearing dark purple leggings and minimal makeup. Even if they were just going to a spa, this was significantly more understated than what her mom would typically wear. Lydia felt an anxious rolling in her stomach and tried to fight it off.

“How are you doing, Lydia?” Her mom asked as they pulled away from the curb. Her voice was stiff. Nervous. Anger started to boil in her chest, overwhelming her fear.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly. Lydia had always sort of understood the tide of her mom’s emotions and behavioral tendencies, and since becoming a banshee, she had become even more attuned. Her mother wouldn’t respond very well if Lydia snapped and yelled at her. Mrs. Martin’s anxiety and tension was already palpable, she’d probably retreat even further into herself if she was put on the defensive. So Lydia decided to bide her time. The truth would come out eventually, her mother was too on edge for any other result.

To her credit, Mrs. Martin kept her mouth shut for almost forty minutes into the drive, which had been winding in seemingly aimless circles throughout Beacon Hills. Lydia didn’t bother to question this behavior. The radio volume was low, but it provided enough noise that neither of the women felt like they had to provide any conversation.

But as Mrs. Martin turned onto a two lane road surrounded by heavy foliage and forest, the song on the radio began to crackle fiercely until there was nothing but white noise coming out of the speakers. Mrs. Martin turned the radio off and they were left in silence. Lydia tried to remain inconspicuous as she swallowed heavily. She had only come this way a couple of times before in her life, and each time it had been when she went to Eichen House.

“Lydia, honey,” Mrs. Martin started with a shaky voice. Lydia glanced at her mother and was shocked to see tears on her face. “I’ve been worried. I’ve been really, really worried about you.”

“Mom!” Lydia squeaked in a combination of shock and embarrassment. “I’m fine!” Her mother drew a deep breath to steady herself as they turned down a second, even smaller side road. This was the way to Eichen House. There was nothing else down this way besides the Forest Preserve. Oh no. Panic bloomed in her chest and she looked at her mother with a horrified expression. Her breath caught in her chest.

“You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping, you haven’t been yourself at all. Especially since Allison died. I can’t get you to say more than two words to me, and I’ve had several of your teachers call me to ask if you were doing okay because you’d been sleeping in class or skipping altogether. And I’ve heard you…” There were tears streaming down Mrs. Martin’s face. “I’ve heard you talking to yourself, Lydia. Having arguments with people who aren’t there. I found knives under your bed. A taser on your nightstand.”

“Mom, what are you doing? Where are we going?” Lydia all but shouted at her mother.

“You’re going to get better, Lydia, it’s going to be okay,” Mrs. Martin choked through her cries. The gates of Eichen House were open to them, two male attendants in pale pastel scrubs waited at the front doors.

“You don’t have to do this, Mom, listen, I’ll explain,” Lydia gasped, her entire body numb to anything but the fear exploding from within her core. “You don’t have to leave me here, it’s not what you think!” Mrs. Martin was sobbing, shaking her head as she put the car into park. She immediately unlocked the doors and jumped out of the driver side, keys in hand.

“Miss Martin, we’d ask that you please get out of the car calmly, don’t make this difficult for all of us,” one of the nurses said, his voice smooth and calm.

“Mom! Mom, please, no, don’t let them take me! Mom! _Mom_!” Lydia was shrieking now, doing her damnedest to resist the attendants attempting to pull her out of the car. Mrs. Martin just shook her head, sobbing silently with her arms wrapped viselike around her own body. The attendants proceeded to open the passenger side door and together they pried Lydia out of the car, holding her between them like she weighed nothing.

“Miss Martin, please don’t-”

“Don’t touch me! I’m not going in there! Mom, please, _please_ don’t do this! I’m sorry! Just don’t leave- Mom!” Lydia’s shrieks became more desperate as the attendants started to walk with her up the front steps to the entry of Eichen House.

“Miss Martin, if you don’t calm down we’ll be forced to sedate you,” one of the attendants informed her gently. Sedation meant sleep. Sleep meant nightmares. Lydia began to fight more forcefully, writhing under their grasp, kicking her legs and punching with all she had.

“Thorazine,” one of the attendants muttered to the other. Lydia identified it at once. Used for panic attacks, usually. Overactive patients. Even if it didn’t knock her out completely, she’d be down for the count. And then she’d be trapped. Overwhelming hysteria began to wash over Lydia, unlike anything she’d ever felt, barring the night of Allison’s death.

She felt one of the hands on her upper arm disappear and heard the plastic head being popped off of an intramuscular syringe. She looked at her mom horrified. There was no escaping.

Lydia felt the prick of the syringe bite into her tricep, and she recalled the fingers that had skated over that same arm only an hour before.

Stiles. Scott. Kira. Derek. They had to find her. They could get her out.

She felt her eyelids grow heavy, but with the last burst of strength she could muster, Lydia screamed.


	2. With My Heart Like a Stone

Lydia was not in history directly after lunch. Stiles had saved her a seat on his left and was perplexed when she wasn’t there by the time the bell rung. She wasn’t the type to be late to class, even given her spotty attendance as of late. He’d seen her just an hour ago, before lunch. He turned to Danny on his right.

“Dude, you have French with Lydia, right?” Stiles said quietly. Danny gave him a tired sidelong glance.

“Yeah, why?”

“Was she at the lunch discussion your class had today?” Danny wrinkled his nose, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

“We didn’t have a lunch discussion today. We don’t have one until next week,”  He said, scowling slightly. “Why?”

“She said she… Never mind,” Stiles sighed. So she’d skipped class again. He’d be more pissed off if he hadn’t already been concerned by her behavior that day.

“She doesn’t go to those anymore anyways,” Danny input helpfully.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, his eyes narrowing. She’d been missing lunch at least once a week for the past couple of months, claiming to be eating with her French class.

“Madame has been pretty nice to her about it since Allison passed,” Danny said shrugging. “They were always paired up in that class. They were the only ones who could actually really speak French at all.” Stiles smirked a little at Danny’s words, but then fell into a silent scowl when Mr. Yukimura began the lesson, worry swelling in his throat.

He thought back to before lunch, less than an hour ago when he last saw her. Mentally kicking himself, he realized that she had been heading away from her classroom as well as the cafeteria. She had seemed on edge, but then again, that had grown to be a part of Lydia since Allison’s death. She was more keyed up at all times, more jumpy, and yet at the same time, less observant. Stiles had been forced to flag her down using every method at his disposal and yet when it came down to him yelling her name, she had startled so badly that you’d think he had electrically shocked her.

Stiles tried to shake those thoughts from his head as he watched Mr. Yukimura begin to write down important dates in the Cold War. But as soon as Stiles made to put his pen to paper, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He jerked involuntarily, his pen flying out of his hand and onto the floor. Danny raised an eyebrow at him before turning back to the board. Stiles picked the pen up before pulling out his phone as covertly as he could. Scott’s name flashed across the screen, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

 _Scott: 12:46: We have a problem. I’m in the hallway._ Stiles’ heart sunk in his stomach, and he immediately started shoving his notebook back into his bag.

“Mr. Yukimura, can I please be excused?” Stiles asked, standing preemptively and swinging his back over one shoulder. Mr. Yukimura gave him a subtly questioning look to which Stiles replied with a slight bob of the head, and the teacher consented with a brief nod before continuing on with the lesson. Stiles sped out of the room, nearly upending a couple of desks en route before sliding out the door with no lack of clattering fanfare.

As Scott had said, he was waiting in the hallway, leaning against a wall of lockers, his expression pained. Stiles rushed over to him, concerned.

“Dude, what’s going on, are you okay?” Stiles asked. He hoped this was a pack thing. If this was about Lydia, Stiles didn’t know what he would do. Scott looked up at him with a pained expression, and clapped a hand onto his shoulder.

“Stiles, Lydia isn’t in class with you right now, is she?” Scott asked, his voice low and wanton. He knew the answer already. Stiles felt his pulse start to pound in his ears, breath heavy and painful in his chest.

“No, she wasn’t, and Danny said they didn’t have French lunch today either.” Stiles said quickly.

“I heard her scream,” Scott said quietly. “Just like five minutes ago. It definitely didn’t sound like it was nearby.”

“Shit.” Stiles muttered. He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial 4 in a desperate attempt to get a hold of her. While the phone was ringing, Kira came bounding up the hallway, worry etched on her face.

“I heard a scream-” Kira started.

“Lydia. We don’t know where she is,” Scott said shortly, his eyes darting up to Stiles whose free hand was raking through his hair anxiously. Kira bit her lip.

“Hi, it’s Lydia, can’t come to the phone-” The answering machine picked up Stiles’ call and he irritably skipped the second half of the message, punching 1 on the screen to leave a message.

“Lyds, it’s Stiles. Scott heard you scream and you weren’t in class after lunch, if you’re okay please, please call me back.” Stiles ended the call and swiped under his nose with the backside of his hand, looking between Kira and Scott rapidly.

“She told me she was going to spend some time with her mom this afternoon,” Kira said quietly.

“So you knew she was going to be out of school this afternoon?” Scott asked.

“Out of school yes, but we should have been able to reach her via phone, she hates spending time with her mom these days,” Kira explained, her voice steady despite her frown.

“And I don’t think she’d be screaming if she was just having girl time at some swanky cafe,” Stiles added tersely. Scott’s phone lit up with a call, and for a moment they all shared the furtive hope that the banshee would be on the other end of the line with some sort of explanation.

“It’s Derek,” Scott reported, looking at the screen with disappointment before sliding his thumb across the screen and answering.

“Did you hear it?” Derek asked curtly.

“Yeah. We can’t get a hold of her, and she’s been gone for almost an hour now,” Scott explained. “She told Kira that she was spending time with her mom this afternoon, but-”

“But she screamed,” Derek finished Scott’s explanation for him.

“Yeah.”

“Are you guys all still in school?” Derek asked. Scott looked at Kira and Stiles. Kira was watching him with rapt attention, and Scott was sure that she was listening to both sides of the conversation. Stiles was staring blankly at the floor about four feet ahead of him, brow furrowed as he chewed on his thumbnail.

“I think it’s safe to say we’re not going to be in class the rest of the day,” Scott decided.

“Then come meet me at the loft. We’ll find her,” Derek instructed, his voice tense. The line went dead only a moment later. Scott’s hand dropped from his ear and he looked to Stiles.

“We’re going to head to Derek’s. We’ll be able to figure it out from there,” He explained as delicately as he could. “We’re going to find her, Stiles.”

“Scott!” Malia was coming down the hall at a brisk walk. “Did you hear that scream?” She asked, her voice carrying loudly. Stiles shushed her.

“He heard it. So did Derek. It was Lydia,” He explained quickly, his voice hushed.

“Where is she?” Malia asked, looking around the group as if Lydia was hiding among them.

“We don’t know. We can’t get in touch with her,” Stiles said, beginning to gnaw on his thumbnail agian.

“We’re going to Derek’s loft, you coming?” Scott asked Malia. She bobbed her head instantly.

“Then let’s go,” Stiles said impatiently, stalking towards the nearest exit with exaggerated speed. Scott jogged to catch up to him while Kira and Malia hurried behind them.

“Stiles,” Scott called out, catching up to his friend easily. “Stiles, you have to calm down it’s going to be okay, we’re going to find her and she’s going to be fine.”

“I was going to talk to her tonight about everything,” Stiles muttered roughly. “Something wasn’t right and she was going to explain it. If she had a hunch and didn’t tell me in time…” He trailed off. Scott put a hand around Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed.

“We’re going to find her,” Scott said simply. To him, there was no other alternative. But to Stiles, the possibilities ran rampant.

“Can Kira take Malia?” Stiles asked weakly. “And you come with me?” Scott nodded instantly.

“Kira!” He called back over his shoulder. “You bring Malia, I’m going to ride with Stiles.” The kitsune nodded her understanding and tugged Malia towards her car without meeting any resistance. Scott hopped in the passenger seat of the Jeep and watched warily as Stiles fumbled with his keys while punching in the commands to call Lydia again.

“Give me your phone, Stiles, I’ll call her again. You focus on getting us to Derek’s in one piece,” Scott suggested, sliding Stiles’ phone out of his grasp.

“Right,” Stiles accepted. “Got it.” The blue jeep flew out of the parking lot, and Scott was grateful that they weren’t leaving at the end of the day when the streets were congested. Scott glanced down at Stiles’ phone and scowled at the little red number 19 hovering over the voicemail icon.

“Dude, do you ever check your voicemail?” Scott asked, a hint of motherly disapproving entering his voice.

“Really, Scott? Now’s not the time for lecturing,” Stiles protested irately. Clouds were gathering darkly overhead, and to Stiles, it felt like some sort of Gothic foreboding.

“But then why did you leave Lydia a voicemail?”

“I don’t know, she seems like the kind of person to actually check that sort of stuff,” Stiles said with a shrug.

“Then maybe she’s the kind of person to leave a voicemail too,” Scott raised an eyebrow and tapped the voicemail button on a hunch. Starting a couple of months ago, the unheard voice mails were coming from a variety of people; Sheriff Stilinski and Scott mostly, there was one from Danny and one from Mrs. McCall too. But the last five were all left in the past month, and they were all from Lydia. The most recent was left less than 24 hours ago.

“Dude,” Scott said, shocked slightly by the list. Stiles glanced over at the screen before gluing his eyes back to the road.

“Shit,” He whispered, his lips twitching. “Play them on speaker.” Scott nodded.

“This is three weeks ago,” he prefaced, hitting the oldest one in the string of messages.

“Hi Stiles, it’s Lydia. Um, I was wondering if you were free today? I just need someone to talk to,” Lydia sounded exhausted and hoarse. “Call me back if you can.” Stiles ruled that one out as nothing too worrisome, despite the guilty sinking feeling in his stomach.

“This one’s four days later,” Scott said, hitting the next one. Initially, it sounded like there was nothing playing, but then a ragged breath cut through the recording. The breath was followed by a long silence, then another gasping, shallow breath.

“Hi Stiles, it’s Lydia,” her voice was shaking in the message, but it was very clear she was trying to conceal that. “I think I just… I went into a fugue state but I… I just ended up at her grave? I don’t think that there’s any fresh bodies here, but I think I walked, and it’s really dark. If you get this, can you call me back? Or come pick me up?” The line cut off then, and Scott and Stiles exchanged looked. Stiles turned back to face the road, blinking hard. They both knew whose grave Lydia was talking about. It didn't need to be specified. 

“This is the same day, an hour later,” Scott said.

“Hi Stiles, it’s Lydia… again. I’ve been walking back, and I think there’s someone here with me?” Her voice was hushed, but the underlying panic was evident. “Please call me back.”

“Why didn’t she call any of you?” Stiles muttered, growing increasingly agitated as the messages progressed. He didn’t know why she would have continued to call him, especially when he wasn’t picking up. Especially when she was in a potentially dangerous situation.

“This is six days after that,” Scott mumbled, playing the fourth message.

“Stiles I really need your help. There are things happening that I don’t understand, I’m hearing things, but no one’s-” The sharp sound of shattering glass exploded from the phone, and then the line went dead. The lump in Stiles’ throat was suffocating. Scott’s face was contorted with worry as he scrolled up on the screen to hit the final message.

“Hi Stiles, it’s Lydia. I just… Call me back when you get this. I think a banshee thing has been happening and I… I don’t know what to… Just call me, okay?” Her voice was scratchy and hoarse,

“She left that last night…” He paused, looking at the time stamp. Scott then pulled out his own phone and checked his messages. “She left this less than ten minutes before she texted me, to see if either you or I were available…” Scott said softly, reading back through the short conversation he and Lydia had shared, wincing internally at the fact that he mentioned that Stiles had been worried. It seemed so contradictory to the fact that Stiles hadn’t bothered to pick up his phone.

Stiles was doing his best to keep a stony expression, trying not to let the frustration or guilt show on his face. But as they pulled up to the Hale loft, he was forced to face Scott and his stupid puppy dog eyes. He shoved the gearshift into park and snatched his phone back roughly.

“Don’t look at me like that, I already know I’ve been a shitty friend,” Stiles snapped, shoving his phone back in his pocket.

“I’m- I don’t think you’re the only one who hasn’t been there!” Scott said incredulously. “She’s texted me a bunch of times, needing something and I’ve blown her off. Kira’s done the same. I’m not blaming you,” Scott reassured Stiles. The silence hung heavily between them and was only disrupted when Kira pulled up next to them. Rain was beginning to fall in quickly intensifying waves, and when the girls came running up to the Jeep, Stiles and Scott were already headed towards the shelter of indoors.

“We’ve got a little more information here, we’ll tell you when we get up to the loft so we don’t have to explain twice,” Scott said hurriedly, ushering the girls and Stiles into the building ahead of him. Stiles’ expression was set in stone. They didn’t bother knocking when they got up to the top floor of the loft, and Derek was waiting impatiently at the windows in the back of the room. His face was tense, perhaps more so than Stiles had expected. He was clutching a purple scarf in his hand, and Stiles immediately recognized it as Lydia’s.

“Where did you get that?” He asked sharply, closing the distance between the door and Derek. “That’s Lydia’s, why do you have it?” Derek’s lips twitched in annoyance, but his face remained fairly stoic.

“She left it here a few weeks ago,” Derek replied shortly.

“What? Why was she here?” Stiles demanded, his voice growing louder with each syllable.

“Calm down, lover boy,” Derek demanded first. Stiles met the command with a red faced silence, not daring to look at Malia. “She was here a few weeks ago because I found her wandering down the road near here. I caught her scent from all the way up here, her fear was so potent. When I went down to the main road she was just walking. Without a coat. Barefoot. It was less than thirty degrees out that night.” Derek said tersely.

“What was she doing?” Scott asked, giving a grateful Stiles a break from asking all the questions.

“She didn’t tell me. I don’t even know if she was lucid or if it was a banshee thing or something else entirely,” Derek admitted. “She was able to tell me that her mom wouldn’t be home for a few more days, and she’d already been living by herself for a week. I convinced her to stay the night in Cora’s old room, so she wouldn’t be alone.

“I checked on her a few hours later and she was just sitting on the edge of the bed with this dead look on her face and her eyes wide open. I decided not to bother her. But then I wanted to check on her again a couple of hours after that, and she was gone. I tracked her scent back to her house. I was able to see her asleep on her couch through one of the living room windows. She’d forgotten her scarf, and I’d been meaning to give it back to her. I hope I still can.”

“That’s… thank you for taking care of her,” Scott said somewhat breathlessly. Derek snorted at Scott’s gratitude and the true Alpha seemed taken aback.

“She’s part of the pack. It’s my job to take care of her. And I don’t doubt for a second that she’d do the same for me,” Derek paused and looked at Stiles, who felt a rush of shameful heat burn his cheeks. Derek couldn’t know. There was no way he could know about the phone calls already. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions about anything, but does anyone even have a clue about how she’s been doing since the Nogitsune deaths?” Derek asked, his tone implying that he had, in fact, jumped to conclusions. The silence that answered his question spoke volumes more than any answer could have. Derek sighed and glanced out the window at the rain that was falling in sheets.

“The rain’s going to mask her scent. We’re not going to be able to track her that way.” Stiles looked horrified by the prospect, his eyes widening as he looked to Scott for some other answer. “But we’re going to find her,” Derek continued, his voice low and commanding. Stiles met his gaze for a moment, the intensity in the older werewolf’s stare made more sense in context.

Stiles couldn’t continue the eye contact, and he looked down at his shoes. Had Derek, brooding, sulking hermit Derek, really noticed something was off before he had? He saw her every day in four of his classes. But as Stiles thought back, trying to remember those classes in the past month, he couldn’t remember speaking with her once. Two of the classes were with Malia, and he’d been totally absorbed in helping her, but the other two classes were too advanced for Malia, college level. Everyone in those classes knew how smart Lydia was, she hadn't ever bothered to hide it from them. And yet he couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken up in class.

“Derek, it’s not that we don’t care about her, she just wouldn’t open up. Not to Stiles, not to me, not to Kira… at least not when we asked,” Scott said striding over and facing Derek head-on, apparently sensing Stiles’ rapidly cycling emotions. Derek squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger, sighing as he did.

“I know that, Scott. I’m just going to say this; I’ve always been the outsider in your pack. But from where I stand now, it seems like Lydia’s the outsider now. I’m not going to blame anyone, but somehow she’s slipping through the cracks. And she can’t protect herself like we can.”

* * *

Lydia’s eyelids were heavy when she awoke, and her chest inexplicably tight. She heard voices and struggled to open her eyes, praying that those voices were attached to people this time.

They were. A heavy set, caramel skinned woman was sitting on a stool a few feet away from Lydia, her black hair pulled up messily, a few loose strands hanging limply over her square framed glasses and round, bulbous nose. The woman’s hands held a clipboard and pen, and she was writing with patient, deliberate strokes. Behind her, a short, wiry man stood reading over her shoulder and offering up criticism with authority. Lydia’s vision was still too muddled to make out his face at such a distance, but when he turned, she saw the beak-like shape of his nose, and the glint of silver glasses.

Despite a numb sort of tingling filling her limbs, Lydia wriggled her fingers and toes and attempted to sit up.But upon further examination of her situation, Lydia realized that she was strapped down on a bed, just like she had been when she entered Stiles’ mind, with a leather strap holding down each arm and leg, with an additional strap across her forehead. Then it hit her.

“I’m in… Eichen?” Lydia felt a dull pang of fear seep through her system as her words came out slow and slurred. Every movement, thought, and emotion felt difficult and confusing. The skinny man behind the thick bodied woman perked up and came closer to her.

“Hello Miss Martin. May I have your word that you will not try to harm myself or Nurse Tellez if we remove the straps?” He asked. His voice was not as harsh as Lydia had been expecting, and dumbly, she nodded. Nurse Tellez gave her a sympathetic smile, although Lydia thought that she detected some condescension in her eyes. But then again, Lydia also couldn’t remember the word for what color eyes the Nurse had. It started with a B, and it was an ordinary, easy word. As the man and Nurse Tellez started undoing the straps, Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember what that color was called.

“Lydia, can you sit up so we can chat?” The man asked her. She forced her eyes open again to see that the man had taken Nurse Tellez’s chair and was sitting on it, watching her. Nurse Tellez wasn’t in her field of vision anymore. Huh. Lydia hadn’t heard her go.

Lydia pushed herself up painfully. The numbness was fading from her limbs, but the fatigue remained. When she was finally sitting up straight on the edge of the bed, she could feel her arms still trembling.

“Why am I here?” She asked, secretly pleased to have sounded more coherent than before.

“Your mother was worried about you, among other things,” the man said shortly. “I am Dr. Jacob Wendell and as I suppose you’ve guessed, you are currently in the Eichen House mental health facility.”

“Why, though?” Lydia asked again, her voice coming even more naturally to her now, the clouds in her head clearing, along with the distorting film that had been contorting her vision.

“Like I said, your mother was worried about you,” Wendell supplied unhelpfully.

“Thank you for that stunningly useless piece of information,” Lydia said, a biting tone in her voice again. “I meant why is she worried? What am I being kept for?”

“You’re aware of how your grandmother, Lorraine, died?” Wendell prompted her.

“She hung herself. My mom found her in her apartment,” Lydia replied quietly.

“Esther was diagnosed as suffering from paranoid schizophrenia around the age of twenty-nine, when your mother was just three years old. She didn’t commit suicide until she was seventy-one.” Wendell said somberly.

“Three years ago.” Lydia recalled vividly. Her mother hadn’t found Grandma alone. Lydia had been there too.

_She had just turned fourteen. Her parents had told her they were getting a divorce when she caught them fighting over papers in her father’s office. Prada had been her birthday present to make up for the incident. She’d wanted a Doberman like Zeus, who had stayed with her dad during the split. Her mother had wanted a cat. They’d compromised and gotten Prada. She was bringing the dog to go meet her grandmother. Mrs. Martin had walked through the door ahead of Lydia and screamed. She had pushed Lydia off her feet and onto the ground in the hallway._

_“Stay there! Don’t you dare look through this door.” Lydia had never heard her mother so shrill and panicked. But she looked anyways, crawling towards the door on all fours with Prada yipping alongside her all the way. Grandma hadn’t been facing her. But the pink robe figure hanging from the rafters and the matching pink slippers on the ground below told her everything she needed to know. Her mother had been sobbing, rushing frantically to her mother, phone in hand, calling the police._

_Lydia had just pushed up against the wall across from the open door frame and cradled Prada who was still barking shrilly. Her eyes never left that hanging body, not when her mother screamed at her to go downstairs, not when the paramedics got there, not when Sheriff Stilinski had crouched down next to her and tried to get her to speak. He had carried her out to the parking lot and sat her on the hood of his squad car, wrapping her (and Prada) in a shock blanket. The body had been wheeled out and her mother was speaking to the coroner when Stiles Stilinski hopped up on the hood of the cruiser and sat down next to her. He was in a couple of her classes, and he was a general pain like all fourteen year old boys were. He had too much energy and wore too much Axe body spray. She smelled it on him that night. He gave her a hopeful smile, teeth glistening with silver braces. His hair was long and floppy and it hung down so long that his eyes were barely visible under the fringe._

_“You okay?” He asked._

_“What?” Lydia asked, her voice hoarse and accusatory, her chapped lips catching on her own braces, which were studded with pink, of course. He must have recognized the vulnerability in her voice because he reached down and scratched Prada’s head._

_“I was actually talking to this little guy,” Stiles corrected, those dark eyes flashing back up to look at her, not daring to smile yet. Her pale hand joined his as they petted Prada silently._

_“She’s just a puppy. And she saw my grandma dead.” Lydia informed Stiles, although she directed her words at Prada, not the boy sitting next to her. Stiles didn’t say anything, sitting frozen and waiting for her to continue. “She won’t remember, of course. It didn’t mean anything to her, really. My grandma was just like a dead possum in the road. She’s a dog, she doesn’t distinguish between suicide and road kill.” Lydia prattled on, one of her hands finding her long fishtail braid and tugging on it anxiously. Stiles noticed the motion and his eyebrows drew together in an expression of sadness and concern. She hated that he was looking at her like that._

_But when he put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders, she wrapped both arms around him tightly, shaking under his grasp, tears following without any accompanying sound. If Stiles had been uncomfortable with the action, he had done a good job of hiding those feelings. Lydia then saw both Sheriff Stilinski and her mother staring at them in shock. It was at that point that Lydia remembered who she was hugging. Stilinski. Ugh. She retracted from the hug as if she had just grabbed something unexpectedly sticky, her face screwed up in surprise and disgust. Stiles’ expression fell when he saw her face. She untangled herself from him quickly before sliding off the squad car with Prada clutched in her arms._

_“Don’t tell anyone at school about any of this,” she snapped, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Or I’ll tell Danny to hit you extra hard in lacrosse practice.” Danny had been her boyfriend at the time. It was before he came out. He was the only boy their age who was already over six feet tall._

_Stiles had deflated at her command, but nodded sadly. He seemed to understand. Death wasn't new to him._

“Lydia, are you listening to me?” Wendell appraised her with an unrelenting, hawkish stare. Her gaze drifted lazily back in his direction.

“Paranoid schizophrenia. Do I get another opinion before I serve hard time?” Lydia asked. She had meant to infuse humor in her tone. Wendell flipped through a couple pieces of paper on his lap, unaware and serious as ever. Lydia restrained a sigh.

“Your mother gathered sufficient evidence from your physician, your teachers, your guidance counselor, and your peers; enough worrying evidence that she won the right to have you institutionalized for a minimum of four weeks.”

“That’s bullshit,” Lydia cursed, the words lolling off her tongue with less conviction than she wished they’d had.

“You’re also on suicide watch,” Wendell through in as an aside. This part baffled her.

“What do you mean?”

“Many of your schizophrenic traits seemed to have really been catalyzed or amplified by the death of your friend, Allison Argent,” Lydia’s throat tightened. “And given your grandmother’s suicide, we can’t be too careful. Family histories tend to repeat themselves.”

“Right,” Lydia said quietly. She tried to think back to how she’d acted around her mother in the past month. She hadn’t eaten dinner with her mother for weeks, she would wake up screaming whenever she allowed herself to sleep, and the name that was always on her lips, always being screamed, was Allison. She'd dropped and broken a glass the first time she hallucinated Allison. The bloody cuts on soles of her feet from walking over the glass were still itchy, painful scabs. Mrs. Martin had seen them when Lydia had been bandaging them one morning. They'd agreed not to talk about it. _But look where that got me_ , Lydia thought.

“We’re also going to be putting you on some pretty high dose antipsychotics while you’re here,” Wendell said, consulting his sheet. “Given the reported severity of your hallucinations and outbursts, it will probably have some pretty immediate effects.”

“But it’ll make me stupid,” Lydia followed up. She knew the basic effects that most of these drugs would have, regardless of whether she was schizophrenic or a banshee. She was not looking forward to four weeks of a drug addled stupor.

“It will keep your symptoms repressed,” Wendell amended. “And you should be aware that the four week stay will be extended if you do not pass a psych eval at the end of your time here. You must be deemed as no longer a danger to yourself or others.” A pang of sadness resonated through Lydia’s chest. Her mother had not only been worried about Lydia committing suicide, but she had also been scared for herself. Lydia realized how much she must have seemed like Esther to her mother. She hadn’t known much about her grandmother, except that she been too absent, given too little, and Lydia’s mother had always been saddened by that, but never angered.

“What do I need to do?” Lydia asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“You’re going to be taking your Haldol orally three times every day, once with each meal," Wendell began. “You will be seeing a therapist every day and attending a group session every other day. You will have time for recreation and, if you behave, you will be allowed visitors.”

“No one’s going to visit me,” Lydia said stiffly. Wendell looked at her over the glittering silver frames of his glasses. 

“You’d be surprised. People really come out of the woodwork to help when you’re in a situation like this,” Wendell explained sagely.

“I guess I’m not going to be allowed to have my phone,” Lydia asked, noticing her purse and an overnight bag against the wall behind Wendell.

“I’m afraid not. There is a land-line phone that patients are allowed to use. You’ll have access to that based on behavior,” Lydia nodded absently. She considered whether or not Stiles had missed her in class after lunch, or if he was going to text her that night like he said he would. When she didn’t pick up her phone, would he get worried? Call the pack? She wondered dully when her friends would realize something was amiss. Kira had known she was going with her mom this afternoon, so would she reserve any concern until the following day, when Lydia wasn’t in physics? If they noticed her missing, she knew they’d figure out where she was eventually. But then what? Would they come break her out? She doubted it. The ache that had grown so familiar in the past few months settled heavily in her chest.

A flicker in the corner of the room caught her attention, and Allison was standing there, crossbow in hand, her mouth pinched shut and brown eyes sad. Lydia’s eyes darted back to Wendell who was watching her expectantly.

“I’ll cooperate," she said stiffly, her pride bruising with each syllable that passed through her lips. _I’ll cooperate but I’m not crazy_. The amended mantra ran through her mind in a pathetic attempt to stifle the fear that bubbled inside her stomach when Wendell smiled at her. Allison stepped closer, out of the corner.

“Lydia, you can’t, this isn't good for you, call Stiles and tell him to get you out now, get Sheriff Stilinski to explain the mistake somehow, but don’t stay here, you know that there are bad spirits here,” Allison hissed at her, urgency in her voice. Lydia refused to look at her. Is she was actually nuts, the first person she’d be hallucinating was Allison. Maybe she was only crazy after all.

“I’m so glad,” Wendell said, the kindness in his voice overtly brittle and false. Lydia faked a smile at him, despite the muscles in her face feeling heavy and unfamiliar.

“Lydia, don’t ignore me,” Allison warned, kneeling next to the bed, staring up at Lydia with some sort of desperation. This was the closest a hallucination of Allison had ever gotten to her. For some reason, Lydia was comforted by this echo of her best friend.

“We’re going to give you your second Haldol dosage of the day, it’s getting close to dinner time. Nurse Tellez will show you your room and then you can get changed and go eat,” Wendell rattled off, standing up as if to indicate that the conversation was over. He exchanged a few quiet words with Tellez, then left the room. The heavyset nurse had returned with a little disposable plastic cup with a white tablet in it. Lydia took it delicately and looked at it hard for a moment.

“Please don’t do this,” Allison was pleading with her. “Lydia, you’re going to get hurt, this isn't good for you.”

Lydia swallowed the pill dry, and allowed Tellez to check in her mouth and under her tongue to make sure she had really swallowed it. When she was satisfied with her inspection, Tellez picked up Lydia’s purse, Lydia grabbed her overnight bag, and they exited the room as well.

The hallucination of Allison stayed behind in the room. For that, Lydia was thankful. She had felt Allison touch her arm, and Lydia was pretty sure that hallucinations couldn't do that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who took the time to comment on the last chapter and to all the subscribers out there too! I'm hoping that I can keep producing these on a weekly basis. If readers want more frequent updates, I'll cut the chapter lengths basically in half (so you'll only get a Stiles or a Lydia POV in each chapter), and put those out twice a week. I personally prefer this format, but let me know what you think.
> 
> Brownie points to anyone who can pick up on the chapter titles and where they're pulled from! And as always, comments, criticisms, and suggestions are always welcomed!
> 
> My tumblr url is [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com/), so if you're on tumblr, hit me up! :)


	3. Maybe I Pulled the Panic Cord

“This is useless. She’s not going to pick up,” Stiles said irritably. They’d spent the better part of their afternoon calling Lydia and Mrs. Martin, but hadn’t gotten a response from either of them. Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face and sat down on one of the beaten up grey couches furnishing Derek’s loft. He allowed his vision to drift out of focus while his mind rapidly ran through what kind of horrific scenarios Lydia could have managed to get mixed up with in just one afternoon. He felt somebody sink down onto the couch beside him, and when a hand reached around the back of his neck and rubbed gently, he knew it was Malia.

“We’re going to find her,” Malia said, leaning forwards so Stiles’ aimless gaze fell on her face. Her eyebrows contracted in concern, and her hand on his back radiated warmth.

“I know,” Stiles said sullenly. “I was hoping that she was just in one of her fugue states, I guess. But it’s been hours now, she would’ve snapped out of it and called us back if that was the case.” Malia leaned in and gently bumped her head into his, resting her cheek on his shoulder and wrapping her arm more fully around him. Her cheekbone was sharp on the contours of his clavicle, but not unpleasantly so.

“Me and Derek are going to track her when the rain lets up. Even though Derek says we won’t be able to catch the scent. We’re going to try,” Malia informed him somberly. Her face was pulled into a serious expression but her eyes pulled up to focus on Stiles intently, like a child searching for approval from someone she admired.

“That’s good, Malia, thanks,” Stiles said distantly. He noticed dully that Malia was finally displaying some sort of loyalty to the banshee, and he marked that down as progress. At least the afternoon wasn’t a total wash. Malia pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek before standing on the couch cushion and hopping over the back of the seat lithely to rejoin the group behind him.

Stiles hated that even Malia had been able to pick up on the scent of his guilt. After he’d played Lydia’s voice mail messages to the remainder of the pack, their resolve seemed to have doubled up, and everyone had joined him in his frenzied efforts to reach her. In the hours that had passed since then, Stiles had found himself retreating into himself and reflecting on his past few months, when he was living a life that was largely devoid of Lydia Martin.

His grades had dipped. This trend wasn’t totally irreversible, nor was it fair to accredit his flagging GPA to Lydia’s absence alone. Stiles had been tutoring Malia every chance he got, and then lacrosse season had started as well. But he realized how much more time he had spent studying with Lydia before the whole Nogitsune thing. He reveled in the memory of how routine it had felt for her to come study in his room less than a year ago. Lydia was one of the only people in their class who was smart enough to have tutored Stiles in anything, and she had tutored him in everything. She had even made some connections on his old conspiracy board to boot.

His brow furrowed as he fought to remember those waning days before he surrendered to the Nogitsune, because those days were fuzzy, but there had been a new level of closeness between himself and Lydia. They had been best friends, Stiles realized. A sharp pang of longing reverberated through his chest as he remembered the countless nights they had spent lounging in his cramped and messy bedroom.

She would sprawl out on his bed, kick her high heels off and forgo her usual shields and masks in that room, when no one could see who she really was underneath. No one but him, that is. And he’d watch her from across the room, in his desk chair where he almost always sat. She’d prop herself up on her elbows and read out of their textbooks, interpreting the parts that Stiles’ would flag as too vague or confusing. Everything made more sense when Lydia explained it to him.

Sometimes, though, she’d be too tired to read. After nights spent mindlessly wandering the town or kept awake by the voices all around her, she would relent and let Stiles read to her instead. She would lie on her back on the bed, strawberry blonde curls cascading over the edge of the mattress, occasionally correcting his pronunciation or clarifying a term that he marked with a confused inflection. Her eyes would close, eventually, and her corrections and clarifications would fade into quiet, contented hums until she capitulated to sleep entirely.

He’d always let her nap for an hour or two before nudging her awake and reluctantly sending her back to her huge, empty house for the rest of the night. She was required to call him when she got home safely and locked all the doors. She also was made to promise that if she woke up and anything felt out of place, she would call him first. He would fall asleep with her curls and her laugh in his mind and a barely-there imprint of where she’d been laying at the foot of his bed. Back then, he would fall asleep smiling.

A sudden longing to return to those nights crashed into Stiles and the weight of it was almost too much. He needed Lydia back. He needed her to be okay. If she wasn’t…

“Stiles.” Scott appeared behind Stiles who had hunched over, elbows on knees and face in hands. “Dude, you okay? I can smell what you’re feeling, and it’s really strong, bud. Are you just thinking about Lyd-”

“I’m fine Scott,” Stiles said a bit too sharply. He sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. Just worried.”

“You smell sad,” Malia interjected, sauntering over to stand beside Scott. “Don’t give up.” Her sympathetic tone turned into a commanding one. Stiles afforded her a small smile.

“I know, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Stiles said, rising slowly to his feet,unexpectedly stiff. “Sitting here and calling her over and over isn’t going to help anyone, though. I think it might be a good idea to call it a night, start fresh in the morning.”

“I’m sure we’ll have heard from her by then,” Scott reassured him. The two exchanged a look, and Stiles knew immediately that Scott understood he wasn’t done looking for the night. He was just done with the joint effort with the pack.

“Do you want me to come home with you?” Malia asked, sliding around Scott and up to Stiles with unnatural speed.

“Scott’s actually spending the night,” Stiles invented on the spot. Malia huffed minutely, but then gave Stiles a tight smile and nodded.

“Okay. Since tomorrow’s Saturday, we can get up and look for her straight away,” Malia reasoned.

“Definitely,” Stiles said, trying to ignore the lump in his throat that rose up when he realized that by tomorrow morning they’d hit the 24 hour mark. Malia slipped back over towards Derek and Scott shot Stiles a confused glance.

“You good with staying over? We’re probably just ordering take-out,” Stiles asked casually, as if he hadn’t just made the commitment on Scott’s behalf while talking to Malia. Scott shrugged.

“Yeah sure,” he agreed easily enough. Stiles knew that the real conversation about their spontaneous plans would take place later in the evening.

When Stiles and Scott announced they were going to head home and try to get some fresh perspective, Derek had snorted derisively at them but nodded curtly to show his understanding. Stiles had felt Derek’s gaze boring holes into the back of his head since they had shared the voicemails. Derek had identified two of the messages as being left on the same night that he had found Lydia wandering around on backcountry roads outside of town.

Derek’s coldness was both irritating and yet reassuring to Stiles. Obviously, Stiles didn’t need anyone else telling him how he had fucked up by not answering the phone when Lydia called him late at night, especially when he had promised to be there. But the protectiveness Derek exhibited was relieving at the same time. It was good to know that when he fucked things up, there were people who were willing to fill in for him where they could. Especially when those people included Mr. Mama Bear Hale.

“Malia, you need a ride?” Kira asked. Malia glanced at Derek, then gave a gentle shake of the head.

“I’m staying over with Derek tonight. He’s going to help me get better at recognizing scents and tracking so I’m ready for tomorrow morning,” Malia said, clearly trying to mask her excitement on the matter. Stiles noted her sharp improvement in the area of tact. She was certainly making strides.

As Kira, Scott and Stiles reached the ground floor of the building, Scott hung back to press a long, but gentle kiss to Kira’s lips. Stiles knew his place in the situation and forged ahead towards the Jeep as he heard Scott quietly explaining his plans to go back to the Stilinski house that night.

Stiles climbed into the Jeep, jammed the keys in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. It was barely misting outside, and without his lights on, he could barely see through the heavy fog congesting the air. His heart was beating out an erratically, inexplicably fast tempo, and it felt as if his heart was trying to keep up with his mind, which was speeding through every possible scenario he could think of regarding Lydia’s whereabouts. He shook his head rapidly, trying to clear out those thoughts. Distantly, he attempted to rationalize with himself. _You’re dating Malia. Malia’s great. She’s your girlfriend. Lydia’s just a friend. A friend you’ve had a crush on since you were eight. Nothing special. You’d be this worried about anyone in the pack._

Even in his head, he knew that was a lie. Frustrated, he twisted the keys forward with unwarranted aggression and rolled the volume dial on the radio, allowing some shit Pink Floyd song to flood his thoughts. He welcomed the change. Only seconds after dialing up the radio, Scott was opening the passenger side door and gingerly lowering the volume.

“Sorry, bud. Just wanted to say bye to Kira,” Scott muttered through the still-blasting music. He closed the door behind him and Stiles immediately spun out onto the road.

“It’s fine,” Stiles said. The music wasn’t loud enough to hurt his ears anymore. The thoughts of Lydia came creeping back in.

“Stiles, you don’t have anything to feel guilty about. No more than the rest of us do,” Scott said, noting the agitation radiating from every fiber of Stiles’ being.

“Well great. ‘Cause I don’t feel more guilty than any of you,” Stiles said. “She’s my friend, just like she’s your friend, we’re all equals here.” He wasn’t really talking to Scott, and it was clear that Scott knew that.

“Are you mad because of how you acted around Malia? Because she’s not-”

“I didn’t act any certain way around Malia,” Stiles snapped.

“You lied and told her that we already had plans tonight,” Scott informed him.

“So what?” Stiles responded with a huff. “That doesn’t mean anything. I get that me and Lydia have a history, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still with Malia.”

“She seemed to be getting a different impression,” Scott replied, hands in the air with his palms facing forwards in a sign of innocence.

“Well… fucking great,” Stiles snarled through his teeth. He couldn’t deal with this right now. He couldn’t. And his mind just kept screaming _Lydia, Lydia, Lydia_. Scott let the conversation die. They didn’t speak until they were back at the Stilinski house.

* * *

The following morning, Stiles awoke to the sound of Scott softly snoring and the cool metal edge of his laptop digging into the flesh of his cheek. He didn’t quite remember falling asleep the night before. He did remember the uncomfortable lack of conversation between Scott and himself for most of the night, though. Stiles also remembered the hours they spent trying to hack into Lydia’s social media accounts, her “Find my Phone” app, along with countless other non-supernatural methods of determining her location to no success.

“Scott,” Stiles muttered, throwing a pen off his desk to hit the werewolf slumped across his bed. Even as Scott sat up with a jolt, Stiles felt his heart shrink uncomfortably as he realized that Scott had been sleeping in Lydia’s spot. When did the foot of his bed become Lydia’s spot? It hurt to think about, the ache of longing for Lydia mingling with his guilt regarding his behavior towards Malia and Scott the night before.

“Anyone call last night with news?” Scott asked blearily, rubbing the cloudy film of sleep from his eyes. Stiles swallowed back his emotions before Scott could catch wind of them.

“Nope,” Stiles replied stiffly, standing and stretching as best he could.

“Breakfast?” Scott asked, his expression still dazed and tired. Stiles nodded generously and shuffled to the door to head downstairs. When the two boys made it to the kitchen, they were met by Sheriff Stilinski, who was sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, the coffee, and the newspaper.

“Morning, boys. Late night last night?” The Sheriff asked.

“Yeah, you have no idea,” Stiles mumbled, grabbing a sleeve of poptarts and dropping the two pastries in the toaster. Scott went for the fridge and emerged with a carton of orange juice and a container of yogurt.

“I might have gotten a hint from the keyboard imprint all over your face,” Sheriff said without looking away from his newspaper. Stiles swiped at his cheek and found that his dad was telling the truth-- the staggered pattern of a keyboard checkered his face. He rubbed it a little harder and went back to staring at the toaster. It took another minute before it occurred to Stiles that he was in the same room as a member of the local law enforcement. If anyone knew where Lydia was, his dad was as good a reference as any.

“Dad… you haven’t heard anything from Mrs. Martin or Lydia recently, have you?” Stiles tested. He felt Scott’s eyes zero in on his face, then on his father. The Sheriff sighed and put down his paper.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard from Mrs. Martin since she won the court appeal to have Lydia committed. She was checked in yesterday, wasn’t she?” Stiles felt his blood go cold, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. His dad hadn’t seemed to notice his panic yet, and he continued on. “I know you boys haven’t been as close with her since Allison died, but this is a hard thing for everyone to go through, and everyone only has so much that they can handle.  Even though this is tough on both of you, to see her get institutionalized, just think about how one of you would feel if the other died. That’s what Lydia’s going through, then add her family’s history of mental illness to the mix, and that’s a time bomb waiting to happen. I really hope you are going to be there for her through this process. A-and I hope you two know that you’ve always got me and Melissa to talk to.”

Stiles felt his eyes drift over to Scott of their own accord. The alpha’s face was pale and his eyes were locked on Stiles. The Sheriff looked between the two boys, horror registering on his face.

“Oh my God… you didn’t know,” he said weakly. “Natalie said she was going to tell you…”

“Dad.” Stiles’ voice was too shaky, but he couldn’t bother to correct it. “What do you mean? Where is she?”

“She… I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. Her mother had her committed to Eichen House. They’re saying its probably a combination of paranoid schizophrenia and depression, probably some PTSD. Mrs. Martin was scared she was going to do something rash… Stiles you remember her grandma’s passing, right?” Sheriff looked weakly towards his son.

“She hung herself,” Stiles choked out. He remembered vividly. Lydia had seen the body and had been catatonic for nearly an hour. Stiles had gotten her to snap out of it, and she’d hugged him. It was one of the more glorious days of his middle school years, despite all the other surrounding circumstances.

“She was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic too,” Sheriff supplied. “Mrs. Martin got the court consent to commit Lydia under the circumstances that those closest to Lydia were concerned that she was a potential threat to herself and those around her. One of the fastest cases I’ve seen run through this court.” Scott’s head was in his hands, fingers digging harshly into his scalp. Stiles, on the other hand, felt like he was either going to implode or faint, but he tried as best he could to keep himself sharp.

“What do you mean, “those closest to Lydia?” I mean, what does that even mean, Dad? We’re the ones who are closest to Lydia. We’re-” Stiles cut himself short. He couldn’t bring himself to honestly assert that their pack filled that role. Not when they didn’t see this coming.

“Stiles, please, calm down-” But Stiles wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was spinning at a mile a minute.

“She’s not crazy though, Dad, she’s just a banshee, that’s literally- _shit_!” Stiles kicked the nearest cabinet with his bare foot, muttering curses under his breath. “Dad, she literally just hears voices, that’s what a banshee does, of course they think she’s schizophrenic, her mom just doesn’t get that. You have to get her out,” he commanded, trying not to think about the toes he might have just broken kicking the wooden cabinets. His dad looked at him with no shortage of sympathy.

“I can’t get her out. I know that the whole banshee thing was something she was dealing with before, but I mean, _Stiles_. She was hallucinating, her mom heard her talking to Allison. And what’s more, she’s been skipping school, she’s showed signs of extreme paranoia, her mom’s seeing all sorts of cuts and bruises on her arms and legs… Only her mom can choose to release her before her scheduled release date, and it doesn’t look like she’s going to," he said.

“What? When- when’s that?” Stiles stuttered. His mind was doing a poor job of processing this information.

“Four weeks.”

“ _Four weeks?_ ” Stiles squeaked. He raked his fingers back through his hair, noting the way his hand were shaking. Eichen House. She was in Eichen House. He hadn’t even spent 72 hours in the place, and he knew that it was bad news.

“We have to get her out, she’s not crazy,” Scott rumbled from his chair. The metal spoon he had been using to eat his yogurt was nothing but a knot of silver clenched in his fist. Stiles’ father seemed to notice that, and he glanced worriedly between Stiles and Scott.

“You can’t. I tried talking Mrs. Martin out of it already,” Sheriff said tiredly.

“But we can’t just leave her in there. I know that place, she’s going to get hurt there,” Stiles said, his voice trembling.

“Stiles-”

“Dad, listen to me. She’s going to get cut off from outside communication. She’ll get put on medications and it’s going to numb her brain. She’s going to be so doped up she won’t be able to think. And what’s worse, it’s not going to get rid of her banshee powers. That’s not therapy for her, that’s torture!” Stiles yelled. His dad refused to meet his eye, and Stiles could feel his whole body shaking.

“Have you considered that maybe some of her symptoms really are human reactions, Stiles?” His dad input quietly. “That maybe, losing her best friend, losing Aiden, even losing Jackson in a way, maybe those things could make her depressed in a human way? That they could screw with her head, even though she’s got some freaky power set too?” Stiles’ nostrils flared, and he swallowed heavily, trying to clear his constricting throat.

And there it was. The same old problem that plagued his life since he had decided that he was in love with her when they were both eight years old. He always seemed to forget that she really wasn’t anything more than a person. Before he really knew her, he thought she was flawless, some kind of goddess who couldn’t be touched by death, or sadness, or hurt. And now, he was too tied up in the thought that her powers made her invincible in a different way because it was power, even though deep down, he knew that her powers were more like a noose than a shield. And beneath that fucked-up burden she’d been dealt, she was still vulnerable to the same problems like depression, or PTSD. He tried to think straight, despite his swimming vision.

“They’re not just going to treat her symptoms, Dad, they’re going to be treating her powers too, and it’s not going to help,” Stiles forced out, his voice thick.

“I know,” Sheriff Stilinski said, his voice gravelly and low.

“Can we at least go see her?” Scott asked, speaking up for the first time in a long while. Stiles was shocked to see his friend angrily rubbing tears out of the corner of his eyes. Of course Scott would turn this into a reflection of his shortcomings as an alpha. His worst fear was his inability to protect his own pack. And while he’d been watching for outside threats to come down on them, he hadn’t realized that the danger could be spreading like a cancer within the mind of one of his own. It was like the Nogitsune, but even more subtle.

“You can, actually,” Sheriff said, finally looking up between the faces of the two boys.

“Really?” Stiles felt a glimmer of hope alight somewhere within him.

“Yeah. Assuming that she hasn’t had any behavioral issues or caused any trouble, she’s allowed to have visitors,” Sheriff Stilinski cautioned a small smile. “And she’s been there less than a day. I don’t think she’s had the time to get her visitation privileges revoked already.”

* * *

“Miss Martin, we need you to calm down,” an orderly was shielding himself behind her bedroom door. Lydia was upending every piece of furniture that wasn’t bolted to the floor or wall and using it as canon fodder, throwing it at anyone who tried to enter her room. She was still seeing double from her early morning dosage, and her hands were violently shaking, but she was still able to throw hard enough and accurately enough to keep the orderlies at bay. She assumed there was more than one of them. Either that, or the voices had gotten even louder since the day before.

“You are poisoning me! I’m not taking your fucking medication! It’s making me w-worse,” Lydia screeched. She threw her desk chair against the door and heard a satisfying yelp from the other side. From the corner of the room, Allison sighed.

“Lydie, I know I said 'don’t go down without a fight', but this might not be the most prudent way to-”

“Shut up, Allison, you’re not real you don’t get an opinion,” Lydia snapped. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that Allison was right, whether or not she was a hallucination. This wasn’t her style. If Lydia had her wits about her, she would have found a way to store the medication in her cheek, or palmed it out of it’s little plastic cup with a slight of hand. Hell, she could have even regurgitated it, and probably had more success. But none of those ideas had successfully formulated in her head that morning while she had laid almost entirely motionless on her bed, too exhausted to walk around. It was only when the tremors began that she decided that Allison really was right, and the Haldol wasn’t going to be something she could just stomach during her stay at Eichen.

“Miss Martin, we’re going to have to sedate you if you don’t calm down,” the orderly warned loudly.

“Yeah your stupid f-f-fucking Haldol already did that all morning!” Lydia stuttered.

“Lydia, you need to calm down and think, you’re smarter than this, come on,” Allison urged her. Lydia struggled to focus on Allison’s face, but it hurt her eyes to zero in on anything.

“I can’t, Ally, I can’t,” Lydia said. Allison reached out and ran a hand over Lydia’s cheek. The feeling was cold, but familiar. And more importantly, she could actually feel it. Lydia’s shaking slowed to manageable tremors. Her eyes locked in on Allison’s and a strange wave of calm overcame her. Then Allison was gone and there were two orderlies gripping her, and one shooting a syringe of clear liquid into the flesh of her butt. She glanced down at the hand resting on her left shoulder, and in one quick movement she turned her head and bit it as hard as she could. Her victim howled in pain and she smiled darkly.

“Calm down, Miss Martin,” the other nurse was speaking kindly, his dark eyes warm and reassuring, despite her outburst. Lydia felt her erratic heartbeat slow slightly as she focused in on his face. Despite the gap between his front two teeth, the silver nose ring looped between his nostrils, and the ruddy brown pigment of his skin, his eyes were a tawny, golden shade of ochre, the exact same shade as Stiles’ eyes. How were his eyes the exact same?

“I just want to go home,” She whispered. It felt as if her tongue was swelling in her mouth and the rapidly spinning wheels in her head were already slowing down to a sluggish pace. The injection must have a shorter uptake time than the oral. The orderly with Stiles’ eyes gave her upper arm a squeeze before the other orderly snickered, despite the fact that he was still shaking out the hand she had bitten.

“Tough luck, buttercup, you just had an attempted assault on Damji and you bit me, that’s an automatic stay in the closed ward for a day or two while you cool off. And a suspension of visitor privileges, indefinitely.” The words echoed off fixtures in the room. Lydia though the man looked familiar but she couldn’t place him. His name might have started with a B… or was it a G?

“Brunski, she’s already out of it, if we want her to walk to the ward, we gotta go now,” Damji said, his Stiles eyes skating over Lydia’s face and then turning back to face the paler nurse. Brunski. That was his name. Vaguely she recognized that Brunski nodded in affirmation to what the man with Stiles’ eyes was saying. She felt his hand snake up and press two fingers to the soft, vulnerable flesh under her jaw.

“You’re right, let’s just go.” Two strong pairs of hands gripped her upper arms and forced her to her feet. Lydia scowled dully. The closed ward meant something. Her delay in thought was crippling her ability to fight this punishment.

“I’m not gon’ go,” she protested, but her speech came out slightly slurred, and the way that her legs were buckling under her indicated that she wasn’t going to be making any decisions about her transportation within Eichen for a while.

“Get a gurney. She’s done,” Brunski instructed Damji irritably. The dark skinned orderly glanced over towards Lydia, and for a moment, his eyes caught the light, and she could have sworn that they were glowing red. Like Scott’s eyes when he was shifting.

They didn't glow and shine like Stiles’ did when he was the only one to understand a joke that went above the heads of their packmates. Or when he discovered that she’d started keeping an aluminum bat between her nightstand and bed to ward off anyone who might be up there. Or when he told her she was beautiful and actually made her believe it. God damn it, Stiles Stilinski would be the death of her.

She realized then that the orderly Damji was scrutinizing her, as if he was wondering if she’d mention the flash of red. She smiled faintly at him and pushed a finger over her lips and made an exaggerated shushing sound. His eyes narrowed, flashing red again despite their direct eye contact. Intentional. A warning sign. Even if he wasn’t an alpha werewolf, she knew well enough that he had just asserted dominance.

Then the gurney beneath her was rolling. Lydia tried to calm her breath and focus her thoughts, but her mind was running in reverse, and it felt as if she was rotting from the center of her brain on out. It terrified her. She vaguely heard the words “closed unit” mentioned above her head a couple of times, but she could not bring herself to focus on what they meant.

As she was lifted off of the gurney and set down onto another bed, Lydia heard Allison speak again.

“Lydia, don’t sleep, I don’t trust the nurse with the red eyes.”

“Stiles’ eyes,” Lydia replied vaguely. Why was that the more important feature to her? She noticed that her arms and legs were being cuffed down again. Well that was just great.

“Did she just say Stiles?” Brunski’s voice asked from somewhere off to the side.

“Stilinski,” Lydia clarified. It didn’t occur to her that Stiles had been here only months before, and he could have left a less-than-stellar reputation in his wake.

“I know Stilinski,” Brunski replied, his voice like gravel. There was dark humor in his voice, and Lydia was frustrated that she couldn’t understand.

“Tell him to visit me then.”

“No one’s visiting you for a while, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She was dead to the world before they closed the strap across her forehead.

* * *

Stiles didn’t have much experience with mental health facilities, barring his brief stay at Eichen. It seemed archaic, and borderline penal that the patients at Eichen had strictly monitored visiting hours. Granted, it was a private institution and it was allowed to run the way its directors decided, but it still put him on edge as he filled out the visitation request form for himself and Scott.

The alpha werewolf looked exceptionally tense, and this was despite the fact that he had been the calm one for the entire drive up to Eichen. His leg was bouncing at nearly supernatural speeds and his head was whipping back and forth at every sound and smell. Or at least Stiles could only assume that was what he was doing. He couldn’t perceive nearly as much.

“Dude, you’re supposed to be the one with a lid on it. The people here probably remember me, and not very fondly," Stiles informed him, drumming the butt of his pen against Scott’s bouncing leg. Scott calmed and focused in on Stiles.

“Something smells weird here.”

“It’s a mental institution Scott, everything is sterilized about a thousand times before it gets in here. It’s not exactly normal smelling, even I know that.” Stiles said impatiently, filling out his phone number and home address with slight reservation.

“No, I mean, it smells like _something_.”

“Another werewolf?” Stiles asked, his pen freezing halfway through Beacon Hills.

“No, nothing like that, it’s something way different. Like the kanima was different, and kitsune are different. It’s not a werewolf, but it’s something.” Scott said, his eyes narrowing.

“We’ll figure that all out once we see Lydia,” Stiles dismissed him. Scott looked like he might object, but decided against it, taking the clipboard from Stiles’ hands and signing for himself. Together they walked back up to the receptionist seated at the front desk. She didn’t even look away from her computer screen before reaching up and holding out her hand expectantly. Scott put the clipboard in her hand and she finally tore her eyes away from whatever was on the screen to read the paperwork.

“So you two are here to see one… Lydia Martin?” She asked.

“Yeah, we are,” Stiles answered for the both of them. The receptionist pounded a few letters into the keyboard at a preposterous speed.

“Was she admitted recently?” The receptionist asked, scratching the bridge of her nose with one long, fake fingernail.

“Yesterday, we think,” Scott replied.

“Okay…” she dragged out the word for several seconds, and even when her voice trailed off, her mouth remained slightly open as she scanned the screen in front of her, presumably making sure that Lydia was on the list. “You boys know what she’s checked in for?”

“Schizophrenia. Maybe depression, PTSD,” Stiles said, unable to keep the hollow, injured tone from his voice. Every reminder of how he failed Lydia was painful to recall, and when he used those diagnoses to define her, it hurt even more. Stiles felt his hand drop into the pocket of his jeans and wrap firmly around the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups he had tucked away. She loved Reese’s. He hoped they’d let him bring her candy. It was only candy, after all.

“Oh, okay, let me check my other list,” the receptionist said, clicking rapidly on her mouse to change the screen she was viewing.

“What other list?” Scott dared to ask. Stiles noticed his clenched fists and altogether too-energized figure. The receptionist gave him a scathing look before gluing her eyes back to her screen.

“No visitation. And it looks like Miss Martin was put on that list just this morning. Wow, took her less than a day to get her visitation rights revoked? Your girl must be some kind of crazy,” the receptionist sniffed with a knowing smile. Stiles felt his jaw drop at her lack of tact, and he heard a rumbling growl escape from Scott beside him.

“Seriously?” Stiles spat, disgusted by the woman. “Can’t you just let us go see her? It doesn’t have to be for long.”

“She was admitted as _a threat to herself and others,_ ” the receptionist quoted off the screen in front of her. Her tone implied that this news was supposed to deter them.

“But why isn’t she allowed visitors?” Stiles persisted.

“She had a behavioral outburst this morning when two of our employees attempted to give her the antipsychotics that she’s been prescribed.”

“A behavioral outburst?” Scott asked, his tone incredulous.

“What does that even mean?” Stiles asked, his tone resonating with Scott’s. The receptionist huffed and clicked a couple more pathways through the database on her screen.

“It says that she refused to take her second oral dosage of her antipsychotic today, barricaded herself in her room, and started throwing her desk chair, lamp, and shoes at the nurses who attempted to enter the room. When the orderlies eventually got into her room and administered a sedative via injection, she bit one of them hard enough to draw blood,” she looked up at them as if she expected horror. Scott was beaming and although Stiles was better at concealing his emotions, a smirk twisted the corner of his mouth. The receptionist looked disappointed that they weren’t taking the news much worse.

“She’s going to spend a couple of days in the closed unit until her doctor is convinced that she’s calmed down, and she’d not going to be allowed visitors until next weekend at a bare minimum,” she informed them dryly. Stiles felt his face fall instantly.

“So what, we can’t see her until next weekend?”

“At the earliest, Mr. Stilinski,” the receptionist said with an easy smile. This was what she had been waiting for- discomfort from a visitor. She put on a sad smile and seemed to straighten up upon seeing their dismay.

“Can I give you something to pass along to her?” Stiles asked miserably.

“It depends on what it is,” she countered easily. Stiles turned out his pocket and put the chocolate candy on the counter between them, the bright orange of the wrapper practically glowing in the dimly lit room. She looked up at Stiles, then pushed the candy back towards him with her fingernails, shaking her head.

“It’s just candy!” He exploded.

“Mr. Stilinski, please calm down or I’ll have you escorted off the premises,” the receptionist said with a feral smile. Stiles felt Scott place a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Stiles, we’ll get to her eventually,” Scott consoled him. They turned to leave.

“Mr. Stilinski?” The receptionist called. Stiles fought back the angry words that threatened to spill through his lips and attack the haughty, proud woman behind the desk.

“What?” He asked, approaching her once again.

“Here,” she offered him a single piece of light blue paper. The paper contained instructions on writing to patients, visiting hours, phone numbers, and a list of gifts and items that were encouraged to be brought for patients contrasted next to a list of forbidden items. “For next week,” she explained. Stiles felt the anger in his throat subside a bit.

“Thank you,” he said shortly.

“I know it’s hard to have someone dear to you suffer like this, and you have my sympathies. But trust me when I say that our turn-around rate for patients like Miss Martin are exceptional. She’s going to come out of here as a brand new person,” the reception reassured him sweetly. Stiles turned and walked back to rejoin Scott by the front doors.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered. Scott clapped a hand around his best friend’s shoulders and squeezes tightly as they walked back to the car, but neither could think of anything to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for the overwhelming support I've gotten for this story. I really am trying to keep things as in-character as possible, while also exploring these unknown depths that they have. I'm aware that I got this out in a record time (4 days) and it's the longest chapter so far, but what can I say, sometimes the muses move ya much faster than anticipated.
> 
> Feel free to leave suggestions, encouragement, criticisim, et. cetera! Everything and anything is appreciated as far as feedback is concerned.
> 
> Thanks again for reading! :)


	4. Screaming Without Sound

Lydia wondered what day it was. Her perception of time had become so warped since entering the closed ward. She wondered if they would honestly tell her what day it was if she asked. She doubted it. She couldn’t trust them.

The only indication that Lydia had of the amount of time that had passed was the number of times she’d been dosed with Haldol. She’d relented to taking it orally again, if only because she didn’t like that the orderly Brunski always copped a feel before jabbing the syringe of full-blown benzodiazepine tranquilizers into the thickest part of her ass. She couldn’t help but imagine what Stiles would do if he saw that. He wasn’t an imposing figure, but he wasn’t the weakling he had been a year ago either. At the very least, he’d give Brunski a good fight and maybe make him think twice about groping her the next time he gave her an injection. She smiled faintly as she imagined the two of them locked up in the closed unit, side by side, and for a moment she could have sworn she heard the smooth tenor of his voice.

“Lydia?” She sat up straight on her cot, trying to ignore the head rush that followed. That voice was concrete, and it absolutely sounded like Stiles. When her door opened though, her stature deflated, as the nurse Damji came through. He was holding her clear plastic cup of pills along with a glass of water to wash them down. He wore a set of lilac purple scrubs that only served to compliment the golden russet hue of his skin and the dark amber warmth of his eyes.

“Hi Damji,” she muttered, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible.

“Don’t look so sad to see me, bud. It could’ve been Brunski,” Damji said, smiling to reveal rows of perfectly pearly white teeth.

“I guess so,” Lydia replied sullenly, holding her hand out to take the cup of pills.

“I heard him talking to Wendell, I think they’re going to let you go back to the general population today,” Damji said conversationally. His tone was easy enough, but she saw the way his eyes scrutinized her every move, ensuring that the pills went straight from the cup to her mouth. She gestured for the water cup and swallowed the Haldol down with a couple of the other pills they’d decided to put her on. They hadn’t told her the names of the other medications yet, but she would probably get Damji to tell her later. He seemed to like her well enough.

Once she swallowed, the nurse indicated that she should open her mouth for examination. She complied and he shined a penlight into her mouth, moving her cheeks and tongue around in a detached, clinical manner. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he released his hold on her mouth and gave her a wry smile.

“You’re supposed to be excited about getting out of the closed unit,” Damji informed her, continuing on to strap a blood pressure monitor around her bicep.

“I’m still going to be in Eichen, so what’s the point?” Lydia answered, getting a strange sense of comfort from the constricting strap around her arm. When was the last time she’d been held as tightly by a person, rather than an instrument?

She tried to think back to the last real embrace she’d had, and she came up painfully empty. No one had held her since she had been squeezed tight in between the bodies of Scott and Stiles at Allison’s funeral. At the time, the hug had been stifling, but necessary. When they lowered Allison’s casket into the ground, Lydia had felt her knees give, only to be held upright by Stiles’ arms snaking around her torso and holding her tight in a hug. She remembered the overwhelming grief that threatened to drown her when Scott had wrapped his arms around her from behind, his entire body shaking with sobs. Lydia had felt like she was going to die. But the arms keeping her upright gave her reason to live. At least, they had.

“Don’t blink,” Damji instructed her. He had removed the blood pressure cuff and was shining a penlight in her eyes to judge her pupils’ reactions to the light.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Damj,” Lydia said dryly, her hooded eyes complying for the time being.

“Alright, you seem to be doing okay. Are you still feeling lethargic?” Damji asked, scrutinizing her.

“Yeah,” Lydia said, spite poisoning her tone.

“Okay, that’s pretty normal. Still nauseous?”

“Yep.”

Not one ounce of food had stayed in her stomach since she had arrived at Eichen. Everything from the lukewarm, mealy oatmeal they’d gotten for breakfast to the chicken and mash that they’d had for dinner had all eventually come back up, along with a fair amount of stomach bile.

“Alright, that might be a problem. The doctors are going to start you on intravenous fluids if you can’t keep food down on your own.”

“Ugh, really?” Lydia huffed. As time had passed and the antipsychotic was becoming more normal, she had gotten better at functioning under its mind-numbing influence to some degree. While she still felt like a blunted down, stupider echo of her former self, she  was still aware enough to recognize the inconvenience of walking around with an IV stand everywhere she went.

“Try a little harder to keep it down,” Damji encouraged.

“I’m not here for bulimia, Damji. I would love to not vomit after every meal. Tell the kitchen to make something worth eating. Or tell Wendell to take me off Haldol,” she sniffed, as if daring him to carry out either of her instructions. Damji sighed.

“You know you’ve got to stay on these,” he reasoned with her. “You know they’ll make you feel better.”

“ _You_ know they won’t, because _you_ know what I have isn’t something you can fix with medications,” Lydia said, her gaze drifting over to where Allison had appeared in the corner. She refused to forget the way Damji’s eyes had flashed at her, red and violet, and so familiarly supernatural. She risked the chance that maybe he’d acknowledge the truth in her words, and maybe she’d have an escape route in him. He seemed kind enough. But Damji’s eyes darkened at the implication, and Lydia could see the gears turning in his head. He was still wondering if she remembered the way his eyes had glowed.

“That isn’t true," Damji said, straightening up and brushing off his hands on his pants. “I don’t know why you’d think that, but I’m sorry to say that it simply isn’t true.”

“Be that way, see if I care,” Lydia said, trying to play off the air of nonchalance. Damji refused to address the subject, but instead picked up the instruments around him, along with her little plastic cups.

“Brunski is assigned to your block this afternoon. He’ll be the one escorting you out if you’re allowed back into the general population,” Damji said. A little smile flitted across his face. “Try not to bite him this time.”

“So long as his hands and his syringe stay far away from my ass,” Lydia retorted. This made Damji’s smile go stale, but he nodded in understanding. As the door closed behind him, Allison’s figure waltzed over towards the bed, a cautious smile on her face.

“You don’t think he’s human,” Allison guessed.

“I know he’s not,” Lydia replied, laying back on her bed trying to settle her rolling stomach. She was incredibly hungry, but she knew that anything she ate at this point would end up getting vomited back up. She blinked rapidly, shifting onto her side, trying to clear up her vision so she could soak in the image of her dead best friend for a little longer. She scooted over so the back side of her body was pressed up against the wall and pulled her knees into her chest, watching as Allison sauntered over.

“You should eat,” Allison instructed her sagely, kneeling down in front of the bed. She crossed her forearms over the molting grey blanket and delicately rested her chin on her stacked hands.

“I can’t,” Lydia said, allowing a whine to enter her voice. “I feel awful.”

“You’re going to feel awful-er if you don’t start getting your strength back,” Allison reasoned with her.

“I know,” Lydia said, snuggling her head down deeper into her pillow. “I’ll eat in a little bit.”

“I’ll watch over you if you want to sleep,” Allison offered kindly.

"Thanks, Al,” Lydia murmured, feeling her eyelids begin to droop.

“Anytime,” her best friend’s voice echoed.

* * *

 “Wakey, wakey!” Brunski’s voice ricocheted through Lydia’s skull like a bullet, reviving the migraine she’d hoped to stave off through napping.

“What time is it?” Lydia grumbled out of habit.

“Time for you to get the hell out of the closed unit,” he replied cheerfully. “I see you opted out of lunch today. Wise choice, they sent bologna down for you anyways. But unfortunately that means you’re getting a saline drip to lean on for the rest of the day, plus whatever tasty Iron supplement they decide to hook you up to.” Lydia rushed to try and stand before he made it to her cot, trying to avoid physical contact with him, but that only threw her into a nasty case of vertigo. He ended up holding her upright, one hand wrapped  around her waist, the other cupping one of her breasts.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, trying to shove of from him. She’d walked around while drunk out of her skull and wearing four inch heels before, she was sure she could manage some spins from the medication as well.

"Alright then,” Brunski snorted. “We’re going a few doors down to get you set up on a drip and then you’ll be released into the wild- well, the confined wild of the slightly more normal patients.” Lydia bit back the scathing remarks building behind her teeth only because she could feel bile rising in her throat and she refused to give Brunski any reason to touch her again.

Once she was hooked up to a banana bag, Brunski hustled her down to a large rec room, full of patients dressed like her. Some even had robes and slippers. Lydia was suddenly very glad that her grey, oversized Beacon Hills lacrosse v-neck ( _Whittemore **37**_ emblazoned on the back) and dark blue sweatpants had been okay-ed by the administrators, along with her laceless white keds. She could at least pass for a grungy high schooler, rather than a full-blown psycho.

“Remember your room number, sweetheart?” Brunski asked, his body pressed up against the back of hers. Lydia felt a hard, uninvited shape pressed eagerly against her lower back, and she immediately scooted away, her face flushing red.

“I remember,” she muttered. He gave her ass a less-than-gentle pat and strode away. She blushed a deeper red and walked away from him, leaning heavily on her IV stand.

Since when did she shy away from unwanted contact like that? Lydia had been sexually active since she was fourteen and refused to be shamed for her sexual allure. But this was so different, and so wrong. She thought back to the only other times she had felt like that, and could only think of two incidents. The first time was when she started seeing young Peter Hale everywhere. She felt like she was being stalked, like nowhere was safe, and she was just discovering her banshee powers to boot. The second time she had felt threatened was when she was taken by the Nogitsune. _By Stiles_ , her mind reminded her. She shook her head violently to spite the small voices that raged within. She remembered the way it had felt with him pushed hard up against her, the beautiful, terrible contours of his body being used as a weapon to ignite fear, to make her scent more potent for the coming wolves.

“Are you going to come sit with me, or do I really need to invite you?” A voice snapped her out of her shameful, fearful trance. In front of her stood Meredith Walker.

“You’re Meredith! You’re the other-”

“Banshee,” Meredith cut her off excitedly. The smile on her face was taut, but genuine. Lydia looked around to see if anyone noticed their strange conversation, but then she remembered where she was.

“I forgot you were in here,” Lydia said with false friendliness that came almost too easily.

"I didn’t forget about you. Ever since your Allison died-”

“How did you…” Lydia stopped herself before the redundant question made it through her lips. Of course Meredith had sensed when Allison had died.

“I felt her go. Same way that I feel you still holding on to her,” Meredith said, throwing a nod towards the large bay windows over her left shoulder. Lydia’s gaze followed the gesture and she was shocked when she saw Allison’s figure looking out the window. She looked over at Lydia and Meredith, and she smiled and waved. Meredith waved back. Lydia was taken aback, and she gripped her IV stand even tighter.

“You can see her?” She asked weakly.

“Uh… I’m a banshee,” Meredith explained slowly.

“I thought I was hallucinating her,” Lydia replied, her expression contorted with shock.

“You kind of are,” Meredith said vaguely. “Let’s sit down, I’ll explain everything." Meredith led the way to a sunroom, with a single couch inside. It was facing out the window, which had an admittedly spectacular view of Beacon Hills. Meredith sat down, then amiably patted the seat next to her. Lydia complied and sat, musing over the confidence Meredith was exuding. When she'd seen her before, it had only been in passing. She had seemed timid and afraid of everyone and everything. But on the couch in Eichen House, she looked like a queen overlooking her kingdom. Lydia maneuvered in awkwardly with her saline drip, and Meredith eyed the rolling stand with disdain.

"Do they have you on Haldol?" She asked plainly.

"Yes. It's making me sick," Lydia explained delicately, settling in beside Meredith.

"Of course it is, you don't need it," Meredith said, matter-of-factly.

"Aren't you on it too?" Lydia asked, scowling.

"Nope. They only put the troublemakers on Haldol," Meredith said, giving Lydia a somewhat condescending look. Lydia wrinkled her nose. She tried to fold her arms across her chest, but the IV tubes interfered with the motion.

"Didn't you like _just_ break out a few months ago?" Lydia accused her. Meredith scratched the back of her head with an abashed, guilty expression.

"I wanted to talk to you about Allison, not about me leavin," Meredith said, shrinking into herself a bit. Lydia recognized her adverse reaction to confrontation, and made a note to be less confrontational.

"Okay. What do you want to say?" Lydia asked, inviting the conversation despite her dread. She didn't like talking about when Allison died. When she thought about it or talked about it too much, that was when her hallucinations got scary, violent, or mean.

"She's not a hallucination." Meredith explained. "She's a memory." Lydia scowled as she tried to wrap her brain around the concept.

"How is that two different things?" She asked slowly.

"Well, a memory is more like a ghost. A ghost that only banshees can see," Meredith endeavored.

"I've known more people than just Allison who have died," Lydia countered. "But she's the only one I see. Why is that?"

"Because you can't see just anyone after they passed on, you can only see the people who were tethered to you," Meredith explained. Lydia balked.

"Allison and I were only best friends… we didn't…"

"Typical teenager," Meredith chastised.  "You can be tethered to people in other ways than being sexual partners."

"What does that even mean then?" Lydia asked, not entirely grasping the concept. "Being tethered to someone?" It sounded distantly familiar, but she couldn't remember where she had heard it before.

"Emotional tethers are huge in the supernatural world," Meredith began. "Different kinds of creatures call them different things. Druids and banshees and faeries call them _emotional tethers_. Werewolves call them _anchors_. But those names all mean the same thing. You are emotionally tethered to the most kindred spirits in your midst. The people who are the most like you at their core, or the people who can understand you better than anyone else, or the people who may be completely different than you, but are your perfect compliment."

"So what… it's your soul mate or something?" Lydia asked and the idea began to process. Meredith's eyes grew wide, and she nodded vigorously.

"Sometimes, your tether is your soul mate, if you find them. But you can only have one soulmate in the traditional sense of the term. You can have many emotional tethers over the course of your life, and those tethers can be of varying strengths. Allison was one of your two strongest tethers when she died," Meredith said sympathetically.

"So what? That's why I'm depressed? Why I can still see her and talk to her? That can't be the reason behind all of this, or Scott would have been seeing her too. They had a really profound bond."

Meredith shook her head vigorously, rebuking Lydia's suggestion.

"He isn't a banshee. That's the thing, the important thing," Meredith said eagerly. "Emotional tethers are important all throughout the supernatural world, but they are the _most necessary_ for us banshees. They tether us to the world of the living. Even though we hear voices and have visions and find dead bodies, our tether is always there to keep us anchored to life. That's why banshees are supposed to connect themselves to more than one emotional tether. When other beings lose their tether, it's devastating, but they can continue on. We… lose touch."

Lydia sat back and thought about Allison's death. How she'd _felt_ the blade as if it was stabbing through her middle instead of Allison's. How her scream was the loudest it had ever been when she cried for her best friend.

"So now that my tether is dead… what's keeping me in touch with the world of the living?" Lydia asked slowly. Meredith nodded, indicating that she was on the right track.

"You're getting there. S-so let's look at me for an example really fast. I only had one emotional tether. I loved him so much. We were best friends. We got married. I stopped caring about my other tethers to other people who were less important to me. M-my mom, and sister, and my best friends. I stopped caring so much about them because- well, I didn't think I needed them when I had Matthew. Then… then Matt died." Meredith choked a little. "And I… I didn't have the proper tethers to keep me in touch, and I couldn't recover. It started to feel like the real people in my life were the voices I wasn't supposed to hear, the ones that I was supposed to shut out. I can still talk to other banshees like you okay, but other real people are hard to talk to. I can't always understand, and I don't think they listen to me."

Lydia's mouth had dried up and she was lost for words. She had known that there was something distinguishing her from the other banshee. She had never been able to guess that the difference had been Allison.

"But now that Allison's dead… am I going to lose touch like that?" Lydia asked. Meredith shrugged, but watched her with owlish eyes.

"She's definitely pulling you that way. And since you refuse to let that tether go, she's going to keep dragging you slowly to the other side of the veil," Meredith said somberly. "Do you ever wonder why banshees commit suicide? Like your grandmother did?" Lydia stared right back at Meredith, fear radiating from her every pore.

"Because their anchors are dead?"

"Exactly." Meredith said. "They start getting sick first, but most will kill themselves before they're able to die from the sickness. I'll probably be going sooner or later. I'm not sick yet, but I know it's coming. And I don't want to suffer through that sickness. I hear it's agonizing. B-but I wanted to stay long enough to teach you some things." Lydia was taken aback by Meredith's confession of planned suicide, but it wasn't as totally unnerving as she expected it to be.

"What can I do to keep that from happening to me?" Lydia asked. She knew enough about supernatural pride that she shouldn't press Meredith on the suicide issue.

"You have another strong tether that's keeping you anchored here. It's why you feel like Allison's the hallucination instead of everyone else," Meredith explained, leaning in closer to Lydia. "The tether isn't as strong as it was before, I can tell just by looking at you. But the important thing is that the tether's still there and you have time to make it strong again. If you can fix it, you'll be okay. Having a strong, living tether will help you let go of the tether connecting you and your dead friend. That boy will help you recover, if you two can amend your situation." Lydia stopped and felt her jaw unhinge slightly.

"Who are you talking about?" She asked, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

"The boy with the bat. He's friends with Scott McCall. The one who loves you," Meredith said, as if straining her memory to put some of those pieces together. "He's the only thing that's keeping you from going over the cliff."

"Stiles?" Lydia squeaked. "You mean I have to be best friends with Stiles again, or I go crazy and kill myself?" Meredith considered this for a beat before promptly nodding.

"Yes. It would be even better for your tether if you admitted that you're in love with him too," Lydia's face and chest went a deep pink.

"I don't know what you're t-talking about," she stuttered. Meredith rolled her eyes, then shot a glance at Allison who had suddenly materialized in the corner. She waggled a couple of fingers at Lydia as a greeting, smiling sheepishly.

"Seriously?" Lydia whined. "You're embarrassing me from beyond the grave? Does this really seem like the time or place for this?" Allison laughed at that, and Lydia realized, painfully, that this truly was Allison in front of her. She smiled weakly at the specter.

"You said I'll let go of her once my tether to Stiles is strong enough… but what if I don't want to?" Lydia said quietly. "What if I want her to stay?"

"That's not good for either of you. Your friend can't be at peace until you release your tether to her. It would be selfish to keep her alive like this. And it would hurt you too. The longer you go without releasing her to rest in peace, the stronger her pull gets. That's what makes banshees kill themselves. Even if you strengthen your tether to the Stiles boy, it would be like you tied yourself to two cars that were driving in opposite directions… they'd tear you apart." Meredith explained. Her expression went gentler then. "But if you can connect yourself to Stiles and truly repair the tether between you, when the time comes, you'll be ready to let go." Lydia looked doubtfully over at Allison who was smiling sadly at her.

"I don't know if that's true."

"That's okay, Lydia."

The compassion in Meredith's voice was heart-wrenching, and Lydia felt a sudden swell of sadness rise up within her as she looked over at the other banshee.

"How did he die? Your husband," Lydia asked. Seeing the swelling sadness in Meredith's eyes, she then backtracked. "You don't have to say if you don't want to."

"He drowned. He was ocean kayaking with his brother in Santa Barbara. A storm took them both," Meredith said quietly. "He knew about my powers, but he was always so good to me anyways." She had a faraway smile on her face, and Lydia could empathize with the memory. Stiles had always been there when she needed someone to help her after her fugue states, or when she turned up a dead body. It was weirdly comforting.

"Did you feel him die?" Lydia inquired, thinking back to the feeling of the samurai swords impaling her. She often felt stabbing pains across her stomach in the same area, but she had never thought to attribute it to Allison's death.

"I did. It was terrible at first. I couldn't breathe. I was panicked. But then, everything inside me just kind of grinded to a stop. I knew what happened straight away. I had been making dinner at the time, and I dropped a pot full of boiling water on the ground, and on my feet. I didn't realize I'd burnt them until hours later. I just knew that he was dead," She wasn't tearful, but the pain on her face was evident. Still, Lydia couldn't resist asking just one more question.

"Was he your soulmate?" The afternoon sun was sinking low over the mountains on the horizon, and the golden orange glow brightened the sallow skin on Meredith's face. She sighed, and looked at something over Lydia's shoulder. Lydia whipped around to see a Korean man with a kind face and a tender expression standing only a few feet from Meredith. He was in normal clothes, and his altogether cleanliness suggested that he wasn't a patient, but rather, the specter of Meredith's deceased husband. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. She leaned into his hand and closed her eyes.

"He still is."

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me," Derek snapped

"You guys figured it out on your own, alright? And we didn't think that either of you would exactly handle the news super well, so we were trying to figure out how to tell you," Stiles said weakly. Kira was sitting silently on the couch, watching the whole exchange with sympathy- Scott had told her about Lydia's predicament on Saturday night. Scott himself was wincing right beside Stiles while Peter and Malia stared them down, eyes glowing with anger. Some alpha he was.

"You spent _four days_ trying to figure out how to tell us she was being held prisoner in that hell hole?" Malia said, glowering at Stiles. He stood his ground.

"You guys spent days out in the woods tracking. Malia told me not to interrupt unless it was life or death!" Stiles said.

"And you didn't think this qualified?" Malia asked incredulously.

"We were trying to figure out a non-violent, totally legal way to get her out before Derek stormed the place in some misplaced attempt at being a hero and got us all in trouble!" Stiles argued.

"Out of all of us, I'd honestly expect _you_ to be the one to go all renegade-vigilante, Stiles!" Derek yelled. "You're the one who looked like you were gonna swoon when we played those stupid voicemails she left you!" Stiles' ears went pink, but he didn't back down.

"Yeah, well apparently you didn't seem to really understand the manner of my relationship with Lydia!" He shot back.

"Scott, you were seriously on board with this?" Derek rounded on the alpha.

"I- I just… I just hoped that Sheriff Stilinski could make some difference and get her out. I didn't want to start a full-fledged war on Eichen House before we were sure that we had exhausted all the options," Scott said. Derek through his hands up in exasperation and Malia growled.

"You do know that I have a J.D., right?" Derek sneered at Scott and Stiles. Both teenagers balked.

"You have _what_?" Scott asked.

"A law degree from the UC-Berkley," Derek said. His face seemed to be jumping between expressions of anger and self-satisfaction. 

"Are you joking?" Stiles asked, blinking hard as he stared between Malia and Derek.

"Did you think I haven't left Beacon Hills since graduating high school? Did you really think I just wanted to hang around in the wake of my family's mass murder? No, I went to college, then law school," Derek scoffed. Both Stiles and Scott both mumbled something about how they didn't think he was stupid, he just was a bit of a shut in. Derek just rolled his eyes and Malia seethed.

"Well, now we're all on the same page, so the question is- what do you think we should do?" Stiles finally said, his voice laced with exasperation. No one responded for a moment, and Stiles' heart started to plummet. But to his surprise, it was Malia who spoke up first.

"We're not leaving her in there, I'll say that much," she growled, her hands clenched in fists. The rest of the pack stared at her, all internally wondering how much she knew about Stiles and Lydia's history together. When no one responded, Malia sighed impatiently.

"She's not my best friend or anything, but Derek's been teaching me about what it means to be a pack. It doesn't matter how much I like her. We have a duty to protect her even though she's weak. _Especially_ because she's weak. Wolves aren't like coyotes. I'm still learning," Malia admitted grudgingly.

"No, that's really good, Malia. We're glad you're on board," Stiles said sincerely.

"So all we have to do is figure out a way to spring her?" Derek said. "That seems pretty easy. I mean, now that we actually know where she is."

He glared pointedly at Stiles and Scott who both gave him agitated looks in response.

"It's not that easy, they've upped the security since Malia and I were there last, it's a lot tighter, and they already know our faces," Stiles said, gesturing around the room at Scott, Malia, and himself.

"So, what? We just give up?" Derek asked bitterly.

"No, don't be stupid," Stiles chastised him. He dropped the air of condescension when Derek growled at him. "We just can't go and do a dashing rescue scene like something out of Robin Hood, okay? It's gotta be done right, or we jeopardize her chances of getting out for good."

"Fine," Derek huffed. "I can start looking into it. I'll call up some of my law school buddies and-"

"You have _law school buddies_?" Stiles asked, bewildered. Derek shot an annoyed glare before continuing.

"I'll get in touch, see if any of them have been working in the health sector, I'm sure that I've got someone who can give me some insight to loopholes around this." Derek reassured them.

"What do we do in the meantime?" Kira piped up from the corner for the first time in the conversation. At this, Stiles, Derek and Scott were lost for words.

"Be patient, I guess. Don't be stupid and reckless about it?" Scott suggested glumly. There was a groan of agreement among the pack.

"And take care of yourselves," Derek added.


	5. We Are Both Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Stiles finally talk about the mess they're in. Meanwhile, Scott and Derek search for a way to free Lydia, who is leaning more and more on Allison for help.

It had been too long, way too long already. Stiles sat in the waiting room of Eichen House yet again while a different, male secretary went through his visitation form. It was Sunday, and he had finally gotten notice that Lydia’s visitation rights had been reinstated. It had taken him less than five minutes to get dressed, clean up, and be out the door. Stiles tried to subtly smell under his arm and was relieved to find the faint scent of Old Spice. He couldn’t remember if he’d put deodorant on or not. Apparently he had. Despite his rush out the door, the receptionist had slowed his efforts considerably by processing Stiles’ visitation request with single-finger typing.

“Mr. Stilinski, I’ll need to examine the item you’re bringing in for Miss Martin.” The receptionist at the desk called out. Stiles sped over and delicately put down the purple pillow he had brought for her. Admittedly, he hadn’t been able to sneak into her house to take one of her own pillows, but he figured that if he dressed up one of his own with a nice, lilac case, Lydia would understand the good intentions.

The receptionist poked and prodded the pillow, searching it for contraband. When he was satisfied, he tossed it back over the counter, stood up and led Stiles over to a door standing right beside the receptionist’s station.

“Nurse Tellez will escort you back to Miss Martin’s room.” The receptionist said, giving Stiles a sufficiently strange look. Stiles ducked his head in thanks before slipping through the door. He knew it wasn’t exactly a great idea to come back to a place like Eichen as a visitor, but at the same time, there was no way in hell that he wasn’t going to go. Not when it was Lydia Martin trapped inside.

“Stilinski?” A heavyset young nurse greeted him. She didn’t seem particularly interested in him, and Stiles took that to be a good thing.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stiles said, trying to stand up straighter. The nurse spared him a passing glance and seemed to restrain a bored sigh.

“Right, okay, let’s go then,” she said, starting out down one hallway and waving him after her with a manilla folder she still had clutched in her hand. Stiles hurried after her, keeping a tight grip on the pillow. They wound up a set of stairs and Stiles had to suppress a shudder when he thought back to the suicide that happened there his first night in Eichen. Fortunately, the nurse took a hallway off the stairwell only one flight up, and Stiles hastened away from the painful memory.

“You’re allowed to visit for thirty minutes, after thirty minutes have passed you will be asked to leave.” The nurse started prattling off as they sped down the hallway. “If, however, Miss Martin shows any signs of being distressed or unwell before your allotted time has lapsed, you will still be asked to leave for the benefit of the patient.

“Got it,” Stiles replied dully. He didn’t like the clinical, detached way that the nurse called Lydia “the patient,” even if that was what she was. Stiles nearly ran over the squat nurse when she halted abruptly in front of a door on the left hand side of the hallway.

“Your time is starting now,” the nurse informed him as the door swung open. Stiles nodded to indicate his understanding and slid into the room. The door was shut behind him immediately. Stiles hardly took any notice.

“Lydia?” He asked quietly. The room’s only other occupant sat up from where she had been lounging atop the blankets in her bed. She was in a too-big maroon sweatshirt and a pair of grey sweatpants that had been rolled at the waist and ankles. Her hair was scraped back in a dirty, greasy mess of a bun, and her skin had taken on a sallow, waxy appearance. An IV stand was parked next to her bed, and a tube was running up to her left wrist. Her eyes were distant, even though there was surprise registered in her expression when she looked at him.

“Stiles?” Her voice was rough and hoarse, but it was definitely Lydia. Stiles didn’t know whether to feel relieved to see her again, or terrified by her sharply deteriorating health. Either way, the mildly horrified expression on her face was too much for him to watch idly. Crossing the room in three long steps, he kneeled up on the bed, dropped the pillow down behind him, and pulled her into a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry, Lyds.” He said roughly into her hair. “I should have been there, should have seen this coming or something. Shit, I’m so, so sorry.” His profound apology was met by uncomfortable silence, and it took Stiles only a moment to realize that Lydia was shaking in his arms. He pulled back from the hug, but let his hands run down from her shoulders to her wrists, his eyes lingering on her rapidly trembling hands.

“I’m not angry.” Lydia informed him quietly. The voice she spoke in was so unlike her own, and not only because of the apologetic sentiment behind her words. She sounded so much smaller. It reminded Stiles of the last day he’d seen her in school, the first time he’d realized that her stature was relatively tiny compared to everyone else in the pack. And now, she looked even smaller, her gaze distant despite her rapid and erratic blinking.

“I’m sorry anyways,” Stiles informed her, looking down at his own hands which were still locked around her forearms. He slowly began to move his thumbs across the pale, blue-veined surface of her inner wrists. He took care not to disturb the IV needle taped into her left wrist, which was surrounded by an uncomfortably looking yellow and green bruise. With the soft touch of Stiles’ hands, tremors in her hands didn’t stop, but their intensity seemed to slow. At least they did to Stiles’ eye.

“Don’t be sorry. I was distant too.” Lydia said, her eyes glued to the slow, repetitive motion of Stiles’ thumbs across her wrists. Goosebumps rose on her arms, but Stiles didn’t say anything about it.

“You weren’t distant. You were trying to connect, and I was careless about it. You left voicemails and I didn’t even bother to check them.” Stiles muttered downwardly, unable to look back up at her face.The shadowy thinness of her cheeks and darkness in her eyes was overwhelming.

“You never check your voicemails. I knew that. I shouldn’t have left them.” Lydia croaked. Stiles sighed.

“Yeah, except that I saw your missed calls, and I should have known you needed me. I told you to always call me first.You said something about having a banshee problem in your last voicemail to me. Do you remember what it was?” The question had immediate effects. Lydia shifted out of his grasp and folded her arms around herself, shrinking further into her sweatshirt. Her blinking sped up again and, to Stiles’ deep concern, she quirked her head to one side in a rapid motion, almost like a Tourette’s tic. These tics alongside her shaking hands were enough to send Stiles’ mind into overload.

“Lydia, what kind of medications are you on right now, do you know?” Stiles asked her seriously, bringing his hands back up onto her shoulders, scooting closer to her on the bed. “Be honest with me, are they medicating you for real problems? Or are they treating the side effects of you being a banshee?”

“Who says they’re not the same thing?” Lydia mumbled vaguely. Stiles closed his eyes for a brief moment to collect himself before trying again.

“Are they treating you for the voices that you hear because you’re a banshee?” Stiles asked directly. Lydia paused for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, before nodding.

“They’re saying it’s schizophrenia… the things I hear. And see.” Lydia said, her head jerking sideways again to punctuate the end of the sentence. Stiles regarded her with a wary expression.

“You’ve been seeing things? Not just hearing voices anymore?” He asked, his stomach dropping.

“Not things.” Lydia said, shaking her head, her eyes wide and fixated on something over Stiles’ shoulder. He glanced back around to follow her line of sight, but there was nothing. Alarms were firing at a panic-inducing rate inside his head, but he drew a shaky breath and tried to swallow them.

“Okay, okay, Lydia, it’s going to be alright. Whatever you’re seeing or hearing, it’s got some banshee explanation, I’m sure of it.”

“I know.” Lydia said plainly, looking at Stiles with a slightly offended expression. Stiles paused for a moment, then decided to just move on.

“Well we’re working on a way to get you out of here, okay?” Stiles said, dropping his voice low and leaning in even closer to Lydia. “We can’t renegade release you. Everyone in town would know it was us, we’d all end up in jail, and then you’d be stuck in here indefinitely.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t think that we've forgotten you, though, okay? We've been researching every viable way to get you released so that once we get you out, you’re out for good okay?”

“Okay.” Lydia’s lack of a valid response only served to get Stiles even more worked up, and he rambled on.

“Everyone’s helping right now. Derek- did you know that Derek has a law degree?”

“Yeah. From Berkley.” Lydia answered. Of course she knew about Derek’s J.D. While Derek’s secret law degree was the single most Derek thing that Stiles could think of, Lydia being the only member of the pack to know about it was the single most Lydia thing that he could think of.

“Of course you knew about that. Anyways, he and Scott and Malia have been spending all their free time looking through loopholes in the ruling that the judge put out on you. Malia might be shit at Calculus. And Physics. And Spanish. And like every high school subject. But her ability to find the easy way out of everything is actually coming in handy right now.” Stiles said enthusiastically. He couldn’t have missed the way that Lydia would twitch at Malia’s name, her expression shifting to one of clear annoyance.

“How’s she feel about helping me? About you visiting?” Lydia asked, an old familiar stiffness entering her voice. Stiles bristled.

“Malia’s trying to help just like everyone else in the pack, alright?” He said a little louder than he meant to. “You can’t keep seeing her like she’s the enemy.” Lydia shrunk back a little further, but a fire had been lit in the caverns of her dark, hazel green eyes. She looked almost totally lucid.

“I don’t want to fight about her. I just… she’s where I used to be.”

“I don’t follow.” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes.

“She’s in my spot. In the pack." Lydia paused momentarily. "She’s in my spot in your life too.”

“That’s not true. You haven’t been replaced, in the pack, or as my friend. You two are totally different. And you can’t blame me for giving Malia extra attention in the past months. She’s been through hell, trying to learn how to be a person. She needed me.” Stiles argued. Lydia’s nostrils flared and she leaned forward. Stiles instinctively leaned back, maintaining distance between them. It was funny how commanding her presence could be even when she was sick and medically stoned out of her mind.

“And what do you think I’ve been through in the past few months, Stiles? I needed you too. I needed you so badly. Malia might have needed someone, but she didn’t need _you_. She could have done her stupid duckling imprinting shit on any of the werewolves in the pack and they would have done a great job of helping her control the shift, be human again.” Lydia paused to take a deep breath, her hands shaking again. “I needed you. Specifically you.” Stiles found himself glaring back at Lydia, his stance more rigid. He couldn’t believe the audacity of what Lydia was saying.

“That’s not fair Lydia. I… I spent _years_ waiting for you. I was always there for you. I spent forever trying to tell you how I felt about you. You can’t turn around and tell me that you need me as soon as I decide that I’m going to be happy with someone else.” Stiles argued, his voice rising in pitch. _Happy with someone else?_ He scoffed internally. _That’s the dumbest thing you’ve said in months._

“No.” Lydia’s voice was a low rumble, and to Stiles it sounded like the combination of a growl and a sob. “You’re the one not being fair. I thought you were different.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles lashed back.

“I can’t believe that after all this time, all that we’ve been through, that I’m still that girl you put on a fucking pedestal. Are you going to start bitching about the friendzone next?” She scoffed, although the tears welling in her eyes took some of the fight out of her words. “I can’t believe that I’m still just a romantic interest to you.”

“Lydia-”

“I trusted you. You were the only person other than Allison who I really, truly confided in and depended on. And now Allison’s dead, and you decide that some girl you just met is suddenly the one who needs you. Of course I  developed romantic feelings for you, you asshole.” She laughed mirthlessly at her own confession, while Stiles sat in front of her with a look of dumb shock. “But that was when I thought that you had finally grown to see me as more than just “the girl” to be won, like some fucking trophy. I thought…” She barked out another laugh again. “I thought I was one of your best friends too.” Stiles’ eyes were wide as saucers, and he immediately started to backtrack.

“Lydia, you were one of my best friends! You still are! You’re right up there with Scott!” Stiles said desperately. Lydia’s eyes were practically aglow in the hazy green and yellow fluorescent lights, and the words were pouring out of her mouth in some sort of vitriolic purge.

“I was tethered to her, Stiles, emotionally tethered to her, like I was to you when you made the Nemeton sacrifice. When Allison died, I lost total control of my banshee powers, because my other emotional tether, the only person who could have helped me stay in control of my abilities was mooning over some fucking _werecoyote_ while I spent months mourning for my best friend, _alone_.” Lydia spat. Stiles felt his jaw drop slightly at this spiteful rampage, but he couldn’t summon words.

“I don’t even blame my mom for locking me up in here,” Lydia continued. “Before she sent me here, I wasn’t sleeping , I wasn’t eating. I had nightmares about Allison every time I closed my eyes. I was failing _two_ classes because I kept going into fugue states and just missing them! I was going into fugue states at least once every day, and apparently, no one could recognize when I was in the fugue states, because I’d snap out of them and someone would be talking to me. I lost an entire day once! I was driving to school on a Tuesday and I woke up and I was walking out of school on a Wednesday. No one noticed that I had been sleepwalking for over 24 hours, Stiles!”  Her voice had become high and shrill, and the nurses in the hall seemed to have taken notice because the sound of a key ring jingled from the other side of the door.

“I calculated it out a few weeks ago. I can’t remember over a quarter of the time I’ve spent awake in the past two months. I think I’m really going crazy.” She laughed in a high, cracking voice. Her breath was coming in panicked gasps and her entire frame was shaking violently. “But the worst part is that you’re so god damn surprised right now, Stiles. I’ve been dying for months and you didn’t notice until someone posted it on a flashing neon sign.”

“Wha- what do you mean, you’re dying?” Stiles asked, his voice low and urgent. Lydia tensed up, clamping her mouth shut. The door behind him was being opened.  “Lydia, tell me what’s happening, please.”

“Mr. Stilinski, we need to you leave now.” A male voice instructed him. Stiles clenched his jaw. _Brunski. Of course it was Brunski._ Stiles didn’t turn to face the orderly, but instead grabbed Lydia’s wrists again, trying to frantically catch her eye. For a moment, their eyes met, and he realized that her expression didn’t hold the anger and resentment he expected. Just pure, unadulterated fear. She pressed her forehead gently against his and squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m sorry. I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to yell-” Lydia’s voice was rushed, cracking with emotion and stumbling in an attempt to communicate her urgency.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, Lyds, I’m still going to get you out,” Stiles replied in as hushed of a tone as he could manage. He pressed his forehead against hers a little harder, making her bob backwards against the weight of the gesture.

“Don’t leave, don’t make him leave, I’m sorry I was yelling,” Lydia first addressed Stiles, then the rapidly approaching Brunski.

“You know the rules, sweetheart. You throw a fit, we have to sedate you. Don’t fight me this time, and I won’t send you to the closed unit again.” Brunski approached brandishing a syringe. “Move, Stilinski.” Stiles prepared to stay in place on the bed, but Brunski shoved him back off the bed with one sweep of his arm. Stiles scrambled to his feet, staring at the orderly with a combination of shock and curiosity. Stiles wasn’t as strong as any of the wolves he ran with, but he wasn’t so weak that this asshole would be able to move him so effortlessly.

Stiles grabbed the pillow and moved towards the bed again, where Brunski was holding Lydia down with an arm barred hard against her chest. The fact that she was thrashing violently beneath him seemed to make no difference. But to Stiles, her muffled cries and desperate struggles ignited a fire.

“I brought her a pillow, let me give it to her, they said it was okay,” Stiles reasoned with the man, but Brunski spun and hit him backwards hard with an elbow to the sternum.

“Leave, Stilinski.” He snarled. As if deciding to torment Stiles a little further, Brunski moved his arm up Lydia’s body, until his hand found her breast, and he groped it with a perverse leer on his face as he injected the contents of the syringe into her bicep. She yelped slightly as the tip of the needle bit through the skin of her upper arm.

“Hey!” Stiles yelled, throwing the purple pillow to the side. “Hey, you can’t fucking do that! Get off of her!” He rushed Brunski, and grabbed his shoulders, trying to yank him off of Lydia. Brunski turned swiftly, and delivered a punch to Stiles’ face, knocking his to the ground, stunned.

"Damji, get security to escort this one out,” Brunski commanded dragging Lydia upright beside him despite her nearly unconscious state. Stiles felt a new pair of hands grasp his arms, and he instinctively fought against them.

“Let go of me,” he snapped at the new orderly holding him back. “And don’t you touch her, you fucking asshole!” The second command was directed at Brunski, who snorted derisively but didn’t respond. Rather, he got a better grasp on Lydia, throwing her left arm over his shoulder and wrapping his right arm around her waist, making a show of the way his fingers greedily dug into the flesh of her exposed hip where her sweatshirt had ridden up. She leaned limply against him. She didn’t have any control over her circumstance. Stiles was pretty sure that she wasn’t even awake anymore.

“Come on, Mr. Stilinski, we can get some ice for your eye.” The other orderly told him kindly. Stiles unconsciously brought a hand to his left eye and was annoyed to find it already tender and swelling.

“How about you tell your buddy Brunski over there to stop _fucking touching her!_ ” Stiles spat in disgust, his voice raising to a shout. His eyes trailed after Lydia’s unmoving frame and the hands that were mercilessly groping her.

“Trust me, friend, I have been doing everything I can to prevent him from being assigned to her.” The orderly restraining Stiles said sympathetically. “But I cannot protect her always.” Stiles’ shoulders sagged in defeat as she disappeared entirely from his view. He stopped fighting the other orderly, and scrubbed a hand over his face, the feeling of loss welling within him.

“I could have.” 

* * *

 

"When is Stiles going to see her?" Derek asked. Scott assumed that he was intending to sound casual, but his more human nature shone through as concern thickened his voice.

"He's probably with her now," Scott said quietly, leafing through the papers on his lap. Stiles was far enough away that Scott couldn't micromanage his emotions, but the tension that Stiles had been feeling earlier had been incredibly potent. Scott was fairly sure that he still had a distant lock on the scent. Its lack of change could either mean that he hadn't gotten in to see her yet, or that seeing her had given him no relief or comfort. Scott hoped that his friend was still waiting.

They had spent the better part of the last few days looking through legal proceedings in Beacon Hills that were related to Eichen House. They had only gained access to a few of the files, and only because Sheriff Stilinski had been willing to pull a couple of strings. But Derek told him that some of the jargon on the paper made sense, and was promising new information. Derek looked so professional in his new, black, rectangular reading glasses that Scott felt more inclined to believe him. He'd also done a good job making Scott and Malia feel like they were contributing to the process, giving them key words and phrases to look for in the court transcriptions. Even with his powers dwindling, he was an asset to the team.

"Malia's probably tracking him right now."

"That's stupid, he told us all where he was going. She shouldn't trail him." Scott mumbled distractedly.

"You know why she's doing it." Derek said, his voice low. Scott paused. He absolutely did know why. Through some combination of Kira and Derek, Malia had been exposed to Stiles and Lydia's more extensive history as friends.

"She doesn't have to be insecure about her relationship with Stiles." Scott said, looking back down at the papers in his lap. "Stiles would never want to hurt her."

"Oh I know. He'd never hurt any of us on purpose." Derek said dismissively.

"Then what’s the problem?" Scott asked, huffily.

"It's Lydia Martin, Scott. Do you really have to ask?" Derek snickered. "Stiles would do anything for her. It's not difficult to understand why Malia's a little tense about losing his attention to Lydia." Scott scowled and focused in a little harder on the papers he was looking through.

"What would you have him do then?" Scott asked huffily. "Not help her? Not try to calm her down. No offense, but regardless of what you or me have tried to do for Lydia in the past, neither of us can hold a candle to what Stiles has done. Or what he has the ability to do. So I'm sorry that Malia's tense about it, but Stiles has to do this, regardless of whether or not she's getting twitchy about their relationship. You don't seem to get that." Scott said. Derek chuckled before pulling off his glasses and scrubbing a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion somehow.

"I'm not saying that Stiles shouldn't visit her. I'm just saying, she gets nervous." Derek amended. "Just like Stiles gets protective." Scott nodded, but the lump in his throat didn't go away. He refocused his nose to try and pick up Malia's scent, and found it to be just as distant as Stiles' was. Scott couldn't help but wonder how Stiles was going to talk himself out of this one. 

* * *

 

Lydia woke up with a pounding headache, but more startling was the strong scent of Stiles that lingered in her vicinity. The headaches were constant now, anyways. The scent was new. When she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a startling amount of purple. She was immediately confused by the sensory overload in combination with the fact that she was tied down by the familiar 5 Point Restraint System.

"Stiles?" Lydia whispered hopefully.

"He's not here anymore, Lydie," Allison's face swam into view, but Lydia couldn't bring her into focus. The Haldol in her system was too strong still.

"Why can I smell him then?" Lydia groaned. Everything in her system was aching, and she felt her stomach heave as she tried to readjust her position under the straps buckling her down.

"He brought you a pillow. Brunski wasn't going to let you have it but Damji made him bring it to you." Allison explained, brushing a lock of hair off of Lydia's face with cool fingers. Lydia felt tears begin to well up in her eyes as she recalled the way she had yelled at Stiles.

"I was so mean to him," Lydia gasped. "I blamed him for everything, I shouldn't have done that." A couple of hot tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes.

"You were kind of hard on him, but he needed to hear it." Allison admitted. "You hid everything too well before getting checked into Eichen. They had to find out eventually."

"But I blamed everything on Stiles." Lydia choked, feeling her entire face go hot as the tears began to fall more freely.

"Stiles isn't blameless here, Lydia." Allison said sternly. "Maybe you were hard on him, but a lot of what you were saying was the absolute truth. You needed him, and he wasn't there. I wouldn't be able to tell you all this if it wasn't true. I wouldn't be here at all, actually." Lydia chewed on her lower lip and sniffled before giving a couple of good, hard tugs on the straps restraining her.

"Can you unbuckle these, Al?" Lydia asked, glancing up at her friend. "Is that within the realm of you ghostly abilities?" Allison shook her head.

"You're the only person or thing that I don't phase through," Allison said, running her hand through the structure of the mattress by Lydia's head to prove her point. Lydia straightened her head and looked back up at the ceiling.

"I'm in the closed ward again, aren't I?" She asked sullenly.

"I think Stiles pissed off Brunski." Allison admitted. "He was ready to fight him when Brunski started grabbing at you again." Lydia wondered distantly what Stiles would do if he ever caught sight of the long, shadowy, finger-shaped bruises that colored her body from her breasts to her hips, and up and down her thighs. He'd probably go after Brunski with his baseball bat and not stop until the orderly was dead. Lydia doubted he'd ever get the chance to see her bruises anyways, but the imaginary scenario gave her something to think about the next time Brunski came calling.

Allison seemed to notice her friend's prolonged silence, and her fingers returned to Lydia's forehead, tracing soothing patterns along her hairline. Her gentle touch gave Lydia's headache some minimal, but blessed, release. Lydia thought back to when they were both alive, and how Allison had always loved to play with her long, strawberry blonde hair. Her fingers combing through Lydia's curls had instilled Lydia with a deep sense of comfort and calmness. It hadn't taken Lydia long to realize that when she became best friends with Allison, she learned what it was like to have family.

"Ally, what if I came with you?" The fingers in Lydia's hair stilled for a moment.

"What are you saying?" Allison asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

"I'm saying that what if you're the person that I think I want to stay with? The person I want to _go_ with?" Lydia asked softly. There was silence for a moment. Then Allison's hand whipped across her cheek, her fingers sharp and cold as ice.

"How _dare_ you?" Allison's voice cracked. She sounded more vulnerable than she ever had in life. "How dare you think like that? You're alive, and there's so much for you to live for. There are people who care about you! There are!" Lydia snorted at Allison, despite the fact that there were tears pooling in her eyes, blurring her vision.

"They didn't know I was here." Lydia laughed, despite the way that her voice was choked with a sob. "They didn't know anything about what was going on! They were all wrapped up in being in love with each other." Allison's hand returned to Lydia's face, tracing over the spot where she had smacked her. This time, her fingers were like a balm to the warm pain flaring up in Lydia's cheek.

"They love you too, you know." Allison told her. "Scott loves you like I did, sort of. You're his sister. It hurts him to see you hurt like this. And Kira's trying to be your friend, you just have to let her be. She's timid, but she means well. And Derek. You know Derek cares about you. He's taken good care of you. He's been great at helping you mourn. God knows he's done it enough in his life."

"I know." Lydia breathed. "But they're nothing compared to you." Allison sighed slightly, her fingers returning to the crown of Lydia's head.

"Do I really need to tell you how much you matter to Stiles Stilinski?" Allison asked, tapping a fingernail lightly against Lydia's skull. "Do I need to tell you about the countless times he's put you above all else? The way he's been there for you for so long? Even when you didn't want him to be?"

"He wasn't here when I needed him to be." Lydia whispered. She didn't care that she had been arguing the opposing view point when it came to being hard on herself.

"Not this time." Allison admitted. "But you heard him earlier. He wants to be here for you. He's going to help you. You just have to wait a little longer."

"How long do you really think I have?" Lydia scoffed. "Before I put my foot down and just admit that you're the most important person to ever come into my life?" Allison leaned in and touched her forehead to Lydia's. The contact felt glorious, Lydia's headache disappearing altogether for a moment. But when Allison pulled back away, it returned.

"I'm so sorry that this is happening, Lydie. I'm sorry that you're hurting, and I'm sorry that you're being treated this way. But I'm not sorry that I died to save you, to save Isaac, or to save the rest of my friends. I'll only be sorry for that if it ends up not saving you at all." Allison said softly.

"Ally, I need you." Lydia murmured, tears falling freely again.

"Try not to, baby." Allison encouraged gently. "When you talked to Stiles today, I felt a tug on our tether. It was the strongest one I've felt since I started existing in this form. There's still a chance that he can bring you back. Please, Lydia, please let him try." Lydia took a deep gasping breath, trying to control her emotions.

"I don't know if I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for making you guys wait a whole week for this next chapter! I've started my preseason training for my college soccer team and its been pretty time and energy consuming this week. However, I fully intend to keep publishing on a weekly basis (at the slowest), and I've the next three or four chapters planned out already!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com) and keep in touch, or just leave a review! Thank you so much for reading!


	6. Just to Know You're Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malia confronts Stiles about where his feelings lie, Lydia begins to worry for her own sanity, and Derek may have found a way to save the pack's banshee from self-destruction.

The clock read 2:33 AM. Stiles had turned off his overhead light hours ago, but only to give his father the impression that he was sleeping. The Sheriff had been watching over him to closely in the past weeks, and it made it harder for Stiles to work at all hours of the day and night when his father was bothering him about things as trivial as sleep.

Stiles had only slept a couple of hours since his meeting with Lydia five days earlier. Every time he closed his eyes, he was confronted by the sunken contours of her face, the dull glow in her eyes, and the words that spewed out of her graying lips.

_I thought I was one of your best friends too…_

_I spent months mourning my best friend alone…_

_I’ve been dying for months and you didn’t notice…_

_I've been dying..._

A burning sensation pricked at his eyes, and Stiles knew that this was something more than a strain against the ungodly time of night and the bright, white heat of his desk lamp. He rubbed the heels of his hand into his eyes in an attempt to soothe the burn and swipe away the tears that threatened to escape.

He had failed her. The one person he had sworn to love for the better half of his life. How could he have turned so unconditionally blind?

The answer came knocking at his bedroom window. He sighed before unlocking the window and swinging the glass pane outward, allowing Malia to slip into his bedroom off the roof. She smiled at him shyly, hopefully. It was so unlike Malia to be uncertain. But Stiles shook his head before she could even ask him to join her.

"Malia, I can't sleep with you right now, I'm reading up on some of the legal cases we've narrowed down. I think I might have found a loophole to help get her out and I-"

"You love her still, don't you?" Malia asked softly. Her face twisting up in a sad smile. Her eyes flashed up and met his, still mercifully brown, not glowing blue. But they were mournful. Stiles stuttered incoherently.

"I really don't know w-what, I mean-" Malia silenced him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Don't lie, Stiles." She commanded, her usual sharpness finding its way back into her voice. As an afterthought, she added, "please." Stiles sighed and ducked his head slightly, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. He scowled at the floor, anticipating his next few words with the same nauseous dread he often felt before vomiting.

"You don't need me to say it." Stiles said quietly, a cool sweat building up on his brow and on his neck beneath his palm. "But I will. I've had feelings for Lydia for a long time, Malia. I've known her since Pre-K and I've been infatuated with her since third grade. And I've lov… I've loved her since the winter formal sophomore year, when she agreed to dance with me. I can't make that go away. God knows I tried so hard these past months. But all that came of that was me hurting you and Lydia at the same time." Stiles said, his voice wavering but never stopping.

"I don't want to keep hurting you, Malia. You're such a wonderful girl. I want to be able to help you, to be your pack brother, to be your friend. But it'll… I'll always have feelings for her." Malia stood stock still in front of him, her only movement was the bobbing of her head in a mute understanding. The silence lingered between them before Malia choked out a slight, shaky laugh.

"When I first smelled love on you, I thought you were reacting to me." She admitted, smiling ruefully. "I was excited and scared all at once because we had known each other such a short time. But I thought you loved me, and that was the first time I had smelled that on someone besides my dad. I shouldn't have pushed you away from her. I'm new to being a human again, but I'm not blind.

"I saw the signs. I smelled the way you reacted when she walked into a room, the way you felt when you thought she was in danger or hurt… hell, I smell you now, and I smell your fear, your regret, your guilt…" She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the small, sad smile remained. "But more than any of that, I can smell the love and longing you're feeling right now. Those two scents are so intertwined that I know they're one in the same. You love somebody, Stiles. She's just not in this room."

Stiles bowed his head, willing his emotions to keep themselves in check, but the loss of Malia was already starting to register. Despite his feelings for Lydia, there was a sadness lodged in his throat for what he couldn't have with Malia.

"I'm so sorry," he said roughly, coughing slightly as if that would clear his throat and his conscience. Malia's hand, which had remained on his shoulder this whole time fell limply back down at her side. She fidgeted for a moment before clearing her throat.

"I'm not really great at nuance yet… so we're done, right? Can I end this?" She asked awkwardly, mirroring his position as she raised a hand to cuff the back of her own neck. Stiles felt his face redden and he nodded in a quick, jerky way.

"Yeah, that'd probably be for the best." He replied shortly.

Malia hesitated for a moment before leaning in and pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. It was gentler than any of the other kisses she had given him in their time together. Or maybe that was just him being sentimental.

"Derek was the one who sort of told me how to do this." Malia apologized as she noticed the pink flush creeping up Stiles' neck as she pulled away.

"He's been a good teacher to you, hasn't he?" Stiles mumbled.

"He has," Malia admitted. "He knows what he's doing. He's taught me a lot of what it means to be in a pack. We all care a lot about each other because that's what keeps us strong. It also means that if I need help from the pack, they care about me too. It's more… agreeable than being a coyote. It feels like it's our own special family." Stiles felt a rush of affection towards both Malia and Derek. She should have been with another Hale all along.

"He's smarter than we gave him credit for." Stiles replied, allowing a small smile to favor his lips.

"Of course he is, he's better educated than any of us. He went to law school." Malia reminded him.

"Yes, I remember, thank you." Stiles said shortly, with a less patient smile. Malia gnawed on her lip as she watched him. Stiles became uncomfortable as he noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. He had never pegged Malia as the kind of girl to cry about a boy.

"I guess I'll just… I'll go then." Malia finished off lamely. Stiles nodded again, and Malia darted out the window, disappearing even more suddenly than she had came.

Stiles went over and closed and locked the window behind her. He hesitated, then, for the first time in several months, he pulled down his blinds, and drew the curtains. There wouldn't be any one else coming to visit him that night.

* * *

 

Kira rolled over in her bed and let out a low moan as her alarm clock sounded. She was beyond exhausted. She had spent every free moment in the last two weeks working with Derek and Malia and Scott on helping Lydia. But where the other pack members seemed to have forgotten about schoolwork, Kira had been stepping up. She had done all the homework and taken all the notes for all the classes she was in with her friends, and every morning, she handed it over to them wordlessly, allowing them to copy it. Between school work and detective work, Kira was running on very little sleep.

Kira had never been the type to speak up or ask for recognition. Especially during times like these, when a friend of hers was in dire straits. But it hurt every time she passed her pages of homework over to her friends, because it felt like it was all she was good for. All they'd expected her to do.

A rap on her window rocked Kira back into consciousness. She sat up immediately and her hand flew to the dagger tucked under her mattress. It was only when the knock came a second time that Kira actually looked to the window. She was shocked to see Malia perched on the roof just past the glass. Wordlessly, Kira slid off her bed and went over to yank up the lower half of the window, allowing the werecoyote to slink into her room. Once Malia straightened up to her full height, she and Kira stared at each other.

"Um… hi." Malia said weakly.

"Hi…" Kira replied. She paused for a moment, and then, "I don't want to sound rude, but what are you doing here?" She checked her clock, which read 6:01 AM.

"I didn't wake you up, right?" Malia asked, slight concern crossing her face. Kira shook her head and suppressed the yawn threatening to emerge.

"Nah, I was getting up for school anyways." Kira reassured her. Then she asked again, "why are you here, Malia? Is everything okay?" Malia looked uncomfortable and after a beat, she shook her head.

"Me and Stiles are done," Malia said softly. _Oh_. Kira understood immediately.

"I'm really sorry, Mals," Kira answered her quietly. She was shocked when she realized that Malia was crying. It had never occurred to her before that Malia was just as susceptible to heartbreak as anyone else. Wordlessly, Kira brought an arm around Malia and led her to sit down on the tousled bed sheets. Malia looked as if she wanted to be angry, she was scowling and trying so hard to put on the mask of a tougher emotion, but the effort wasn't enough to hide the pain written clear across her face.

"I always knew." Malia said, her voice rough and gravelly as she tried to keep the emotions at bay. "I always knew that he loved her more." Kira's breath hitched in tandem with Malia's.

"Did he say something? Or did you…" Kira trailed off, not wanting to upset Malia with anything she might say.

"I went to go sleep in his bed again, like we did before Lydia... went away. I was gonna give him that chance to make things normal. He didn't want to. So I just asked him to confirm that it was always her. That it would always be Lydia…" Malia's voice got shaky, and that only served to piss her off. Her voice morphed into a growl. "He did." Kira sighed and squeezed Malia's shoulders a little more tightly. If the werecoyote resented this, she didn't say anything about it.

"I'm so sorry," Kira said, leaning her head so it bumped Malia's.

"Why are you sorry?" Malia asked, pulling away and looking down at Kira quizzically. "You didn't do anything. You don't have to apologize." Kira smiled briefly.

"I meant that I'm sympathetic to what is happening to you. I understand how sad and uncomfortable it can be. So I say I'm sorry that happened to you, because I wish it hadn't happened to you. Understand?" Kira explained. Malia concentrated on Kira's words and nodded slowly to indicate her understanding. Silence prevailed again for a couple of minutes, before Malia broke the silence.

"I used to feel love radiate from him all the time when we would see each other. Then I realized that I was smelling his emotions for Lydia. When I realized what was happening, I stayed with him and tried harder to be a good girlfriend. A good person." Tears welled up in her eyes and she didn't seem to have the anger or energy to fight them. "I hoped that I would be able to smell him falling in love with me. But I never did. And I don't think I ever will." Kira felt an uncomfortably strong surge of understanding and empathy towards the girl. She took a chance and opened up.

"I know how you feel." She blurted out, her words all jumbled. She took a deep breath to right herself, then started again. "Scott and I were kind of becoming a thing when Allison died. When that happened, I didn't know what to do. I was the new girl still. Our relationship was brand new. There was so much I didn't know about him yet. And when Allison died, he sort of shut me out for a while." Kira shrunk into herself as she recalled the weeks after Allison's death with great discomfort.

"But now you and Scott are happy and together." Malia pointed out, her eyebrows drawn in concentration. Kira bobbed her head, but shrugged her shoulders at the same time.

"Yeah, we're together now. But I still feel like Allison's the measuring stick I'm being stood up against. And I know that I'll never be as brave or as confident or as beautiful as Allison was. And that's fine, I guess. It just hurts me because I feel like I'll never be able to be that close to Scott, I'll never have what they had." Kira hadn't realized that she was crying until Malia reached up gently and wiped the tears off her cheeks with a heavy concern playing in her eyes.

"I never met Allison." Malia said quietly. "But I don’t think that you should measure up against her. You don't sound like similar people. So why should you try to be all the things that Allison was? It's against your nature." Malia said, as if it was as simple as that. Kira choked out a watery laugh.

"It's hard to accept being different that Allison was. She was perfect." Kira mumbled. Malia studied Kira's face with unsettling focus, her eyes raking over every detail of Kira's expression, her hands still resting on Kira's shoulders.

"Your nature isn't bad. It's different. Scott wouldn't be with you if he didn't like your nature too." Malia said reassuringly. Her eyes darted back up to Kira's then away again. "And for what it's worth, you are very beautiful too." The simple way she phrased her speech was relaxing, and Kira smiled in spite of herself. Malia looked away bashfully after giving the compliment.

Kira leaned in and hugged the werecoyote gently, so as not to upset her or over-stimulate her in any way. She was surprised by how tightly Malia hugged back, and she recognized the short, huffy pattern of Malia's breath as the breathing of a girl trying desperately to hold back sobs. She held her there for a couple of minutes and allowed Malia's cries to lessen before speaking up.

"You're beautiful too, Malia." Kira murmured into the windswept caramel hair. Malia barked a short laugh and pulled back out of the hug.

"I know that." Malia said, smiling broadly despite her tears. "I never doubted that."

"Oh… yeah, okay." Kira said, thinking back to the circumstances of Malia's visit. Kira wondered internally how she had managed to turn the topic of discussion to herself. She marveled at Malia's progress adapting to the emotional wavelengths of the conversation, and she admired the werecoyote's newly developed selfless sensitivity.

"Do you want to give me a ride to school today?" Malia asked cautiously, steadying her breathing. "I think Stiles is skipping again. And I don't want to call and ask him for a ride, even if he is going." Kira nodded briskly in response.

"Of course. Do you want some breakfast? My dad bought Pop-Tarts."

* * *

 

Given all that she had learned from Meredith, Lydia was fairly certain that she had not been legitimately crazy when she was checked in at Eichen House. However, after more than two weeks in the asylum, she was starting to question the status of her sanity. It didn't help that the antipsychotics she was receiving were making her physically sick.

Her blinking was rapid, constant, and unintentional. This tic worried her, primarily due to the fact that she knew how hard it was to reverse tics, even after stopping the causal medication. She was constantly shaking too. Shivering. She didn't know whether that stemmed from the large dosages of Haldol or from the unhealthy amount of weight she had dropped since checking in. Patients were not allowed to weigh themselves (or at least Lydia had never gotten the privilege), but the new hardness and prominence of her ribs and hips, her elbows and knees… it wasn't something she was proud of. She couldn't brag about dropping these fifteen or twenty pounds the way she could when she lost nine in her first fugue state. She was small as it was, and she couldn't afford to lose that much weight. This thinness scared her. She didn't want it.

The constant ache pounding through her head had become a permanent state of being. It was this headache, along with Allison's constant presence, that made Lydia wonder if it was the medications or the banshee problem that was making her so sick.

"You're going to be okay, Lyds." Allison whispered to her. Lydia rolled over onto her side to look at the specter sharing her twin bed. The nurses had released Lydia from her bed restraints when they realized she was getting too weak and loopy to get up, much less put up a fight.

Lydia intertwined her fingers with Allison's and focused her gaze on her best friend's face. Since first seeing Allison, the specter had seemed to grow more real to Lydia's eye, less misty and grey, more solid. She wasn't so cold as she was before either. Her constantly roving hands had grown warmer to the touch. Lydia wasn't sure if the warmth was stemming from Allison, or from the fact that she was constantly freezing cold at that point. When Lydia mentioned this to Allison, her friend's eyes widened in fear. Lydia wondered if she was dying.

"Allison," she started slowly. "What does it feel like when you die?" Allison looked surprised by the question, but not upset. She must have been expecting it on some level.

"I know you felt it when I got stabbed." Allison began. "So you know what the pain is like." Lydia's shaking increased in tempo as she recalled the ghostly feeling of a blade cutting through her abdomen, accompanied by the overwhelming awareness that it was Allison who had taken the real cut.

"I know. But what about after that?" Lydia pressed. Allison hesitated for a minute, her hands chaffing quickly over Lydia's sweater-clad arms in an attempt to provide her with some warmth.

"The pain faded first, which was a blessing. It let me think clearly. The numbness kept spreading, though, and I felt weak as hell. Everything got really blurry and cloudy, and I don't remember everything from the very end. But I remember knowing that I was dying." Allison admitted. Tears were slipping down Lydia's cheeks, but she didn't care enough to wipe them away.

"Were you scared?" Lydia croaked. Allison exhaled deeply through her nose.

"I wish that I could say no. I wish I was that brave. But I'm not. And I was scared. I was so terrified." Allison said, her voice shaking for the first time in the conversation. "But Scott being there helped me. Scott and Isaac both. A-and I'm glad that I got to say good bye and I love you to my dad earlier that day. I told him that I was proud of us. I had thought that something was going to happen to him. But it happened to me." Allison trailed off. Her hands weren't in contact with Lydia's body anymore, and she was freezing again. But Lydia wasn't done with the conversation.

"Why did you come to save me even when I told you not to?" Lydia asked through chattering teeth. Allison gave her a good, long look before saying anything. Despite her earlier tears, a small smile flitted across her lips.

"Because you were worth saving, no matter the cost." Allison insisted.

"But I told you not to."

"Yeah, and for a genius, you can be pretty stupid sometimes. You're my best friend, Lydia." Allison replied, her smile warming up her face again. "And if my death meant anything to you, you'll live. You'll fucking live, Lydie, so my death means something, okay?" Allison was still crying slightly, through her hard, small smile. Lydia could only nod in confirmation. She had to make it out of Eichen House alive, one way or another. She could only hope that she wouldn't have to do it alone.

* * *

 

It only took one phone call from Scott. Four little words. And suddenly, Stiles Stilinski had hope again.

"Derek figured it out." Stiles was out the door in less than half a minute, and the typically fifteen minute drive to Derek's took him just under eight minutes. Scott and Derek were waiting for him outside the loft, Scott smiling broadly and Derek trying to hide the proud smirk forcing its way across his lips, eyes amused behind the thick, rectangular glasses frames perched on his nose. He was also holding a few different manila file folders in his hands. Stiles screeched to a stop and put the Jeep in park, but didn't bother to kill the engine.

"What do we do?" Stiles asked, practically leaping out of the driver's side door.

"I found a discrepancy pretty far back in this judge's history of cases. Apparently, there's been three cases in the last forty years  that were like Lydia's that the judge agreed to repeal under specific circumstances." Derek said.

"We need to get your dad and my mom, and we have to go appeal to Lydia's mom." Scott explained briefly.

"What? Why?" Stiles stuttered. _How sure are you this is going to work?_ He tried to shake off the internal insecurities with a slight shrug.

"We'll explain in the car." Scott reassured him, moving towards the passenger side door with Derek in tow. "Just head to Lydia's house."

"Yeah, right, got it." Stiles said nodding quickly, sliding back into the driver's seat. Once both his passengers were inside and the door was shut, Stiles slammed the gearshift to reverse and spun back out onto the road.

"So Lydia's mom committed her to four weeks minimum for her own safety," Derek started. "And she did this without any warning to Lydia that we know of. Lydia's schizophrenia diagnosis was based on outside observation rather than intimate conversation and therapy. There was no intermediate step before hospitalizing her. So based on that, we can offer an alternative location that would be better suited for her, as friends. And if your dad and Melissa agree to it, then we have the back up of a licensed nurse and a law official." Derek rattled off.

"And we'll need it because we're technically just going to bring her back to the loft, but we're calling the loft an "alternative facility" as in alternative to Eichen House. So we have to ensure them that we're going to continue her treatment in some capacity in this new location. Which is why we need Melissa to be on board with taking care of Lydia and signing off as her caregiver. And your dad is going to confirm that the new location is a fitting alternative to her current situation." Derek explained. Stiles nodded his understanding.

"Dude, is your mom on board with this?" He asked Scott, who had been sitting quietly in the backseat.

"It's Lydia, man. She's totally on board." Scott said flatly. Stiles knew that his dad would agree to it as well. A flicker of hope tickled his chest.

"So why are we going to Mrs. Martin's house?" Stiles asked suddenly. Derek was suddenly fidgeting uncomfortably in the passenger seat. Scott spoke up from behind him.

"Because we need her to sign off on this." Scott said quietly. "She needs to release Lydia to us. If she doesn't, this whole thing is a no-go." Stiles' throat tightened.

"Are we going to tell her what Lydia is?" He asked.

"If we have to," Derek said seriously. "I think we can all agree that after what you saw, Lydia needs to get out of there now. She doesn't have another week and a half to wait it out." Derek's words silenced the entire car for the rest of the drive to the Martin house.

When they arrived, Sheriff Stilinski and Mrs. McCall were already waiting out front, and a very pale, drawn Natalie Martin was standing in the doorway, looking anxious but not approaching the people congregating outside of her house. No one in the Jeep said a word before they all got out and went to join Melissa and Sheriff Stilinski.

"Are you two ready?" Derek asked the parents as he approached, flanked by Scott and Stiles on either side. The sheriff bit his lip, but nodded in agreement, and Melissa paled slightly, but also bobbed her head in consent.

"Let's go then," Stiles commanded, taking a leading step towards Mrs. Martin. Scott caught his arm and shook his head.

"You've got to let Derek lead on this one, Stiles. Leave the emotion out of it if you can." Scott advised him quietly. Stiles bit back his anger and frustration and nodded curtly. Whatever it took to get her back.

Derek led the group up to the front door, up to Mrs. Martin.

"Hi Mrs. Martin. I'm Derek Hale." Derek said warmly, holding out a hand. Stiles blinked back his surprise at Derek's demeanor. It was so much more human than usual. Mrs. Martin, however, did not change her expression and did not take Derek's hand.

"I know who you are." She said somewhat coldly. "You're all friends of Lydia's. And I'm sorry, I'm going to have to say no to this off the bat." Stiles' heart stuttered in his chest. Melissa and Scott balked at this as well, but both Sheriff Stilinski and Derek took her rejection in stride.

"Mrs. Martin, we understand how scary this time is for you, and I assure you we're not trying to make this any harder for you." Derek said gently.

"You absolutely do _not_ understand. This is the mental illness that killed my mother." Mrs. Martin said, her voice firm despite the tears rising in her eyes. "They wrote down that the cause of death was suicide. They always do that, don't they, Sheriff? They wrote down that she took her own life."

"That's what happened, yes ma'am." The Sheriff said softly.

"When someone dies of cancer, they die of cancer. It might have been a specific kind of malignant tumor that ended up shutting down bodily functions, but that tumor was just a symptom of the cancer. So we say that they died of cancer." Mrs. Martin's voice was remarkably even, but the tears were falling now. Melissa was tearing up too. "My mother _died of paranoid schizophrenia and depression_ , Mr. Hale. And I won't lose my daughter the same way. I just won't. So I'm sorry, I do not want to release her from Eichen House."

Stiles tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. He had never taken the time to see Mrs. Martin as anything more than the enemy. The bitch who locked up her daughter when she didn't understand her. But now he saw that she was afraid. She was trying to protect Lydia from an invisible, formidable fate in the only way that she knew how. He couldn't summon the words to fight her. But his father could.

"Natalie," he began softly. "I remember that. I was there, remember?"

"Yes, you were. And now you're here, trying to get my daughter released because you don't think that this illness is real." Mrs. Martin said. "Why?" It was an accusation.

"That's not the case at all, Natalie." He replied. "My only concern- our only concern- is that she can't heal the way she needs to when she's isolated in Eichen like this." Mrs. Martin's face was flushed red, and she swiped irritably at the tears running down her cheeks.

"What do you want me to do then, Michael?" She snapped at the Sheriff. "I lost my job with the pharmaceutical company. I need to work jobs as a substitute biology teacher at the high school because Lydia and I can't pay off all of the debt we've incurred in the past couple of years. Her dad cut down on the support he's paying too. We might lose the house… I can't stop working and take care of my baby the way she needs me to." She was sobbing now. "I know I'm a terrible mother, but I just don't know what to do."

Mrs. Martin sank down to the stoop, silent, desperate sobs wracking her entire body. Melissa walked over and sat down next to her, rubbing her shoulders and whispering reassurances. Stiles looked at Scott, who seemed just as shocked as he was. Of all the things they were prepared to fight against, the well-concealed, but catastrophically broken state of the Martin household was not one of them.

It was Derek who stepped up again.

"Mrs. Martin… Natalie… We're not trying to blame any of this on you. We understand your situation. We're not asking you to take Lydia back home right now. We are asking you to give us permission to take care of her." Derek said. He was all cool professionalism. She looked up from her slumped position on the front stoop.

"How?" She asked miserably.

"We have a specialist. His name is Dr. Deaton. He's taken on many cases like Lydia's before. And he owes me a favor. So we would like to discharge her from Eichen House and put her in the custody of four adults: myself, the acting attorney on her behalf; Sheriff Michael Stilinski, a man of the law who will ensure that we follow the correct protocol to ensure Lydia's safety; Melissa McCall R.N., who will take care of Lydia's medically based needs, and Dr. Alan Deaton, who can take care of her… schizophrenia and depression." Derek said, only stumbling over the diagnosis at the end of his tirade.

Mrs. Martin looked between Derek, Sheriff Stilinski, and Melissa. Then she looked at Stiles and Scott.

"What is their role in all of this?" She asked. Scott blanched, but Stiles cleared his throat.

"We're her friends, Mrs. Martin."

"I haven't seen much of you since Allison died. She could have used friends then." Mrs. Martin said harshly. Scott visibly paled, and Stiles felt some of the blood rush out of his face. The visage of Lydia in Eichen House flashed behind his eyes, her angry expression and accusations almost too easy to transplant onto her mother.

"We know. We both know. We could have been more attentive to Lydia after Allison's death. After Aiden's death too, for that matter. But we weren't. And now we're left feeling like we need to do something about this. We want to help her if we can. And this feels like a good way to let her know that we're still here. That we're not giving up on her. That we're sorry." Stiles said quietly. He felt his father's gaze burning a hole into the side of his face but didn't turn to meet it.

Mrs. Martin was quiet for a moment. Then she gently shrugged out of Melissa's embrace and rose to stand.

"Where will you take her?" She asked briskly. Hope blossomed again within Stiles, but he stayed quiet and allowed Derek to answer.

"I have the deed to a large building maybe fifteen minutes away from here, still in Beacon Hills. There are multiple unoccupied wings, and Dr. Deaton is familiar with the location. She'll have her own room there."

"And what do I do?" She asked somewhat tremulously.

"Just sign off to allow us to transfer her location." Derek said. "We'd like to get her out tomorrow morning." _Today would have been better._ Stiles thought irritably. Just one of the many compromises he'd have to settle for. He hoped that none of them would cost him.

Mrs. Martin looked warily between the people standing around her, eyes lingering on Stiles. He held her gaze and hoped that he could convey the apologies he so desperately wanted to say. She finally looked away, down at the ground, before looking back up at Derek.

"I'll do it." Mrs. Martin said weakly. Fear lingered in her expression. "Just promise me you'll take care of her?"

"We promise." Derek said firmly. Mrs. Martin took the proffered pen and Derek instructed her on where to sign and initial.

Stiles exchanged a look with Scott. They had her.

Lydia was finally coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry for making you wait almost a whole week again, but this is probably going to be the standard amount of time between chapter releases as my junior year in college kicks off next week, and my intercollegiate soccer season is already in full swing! That being said, this was also a harder filler chapter to write (call me spoiled, but I was procrastinating on this one because there were no scenes with Stydia together) and the next ones could come out faster!
> 
> What are your thoughts about this chapter? I tried really hard to explore the other members of the pack, especially Malia, because while I don't like her with Stiles AT ALL, I want to give her a chance to have a unique personality and interact with the other pack members (what are your opinions on Malira vs. Scira?). I also tried to incorporate some more heavy discussion about the huge impact of mental illness in a family with Mrs. Martin and her experiences. It's an experience and subject that's very personal and important to me. Let me know your thoughts, critiques, and predictions and I'll love you forever.
> 
> Tumblr is [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)


	7. Ungodly Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles, Derek and Scott are finally able to extract Lydia from Eichen House, but have they gotten to her in time to prevent irrevocable damage?

Stiles was unable to sleep at all that night. He wasn't sure whether it was guilt or relief or fear that kept him awake, but he was unendingly grateful when the sun finally lit up the sky outside his window. Feigning sleep was incredibly boring.

After getting dressed, he shuffled out of his room and went downstairs to make breakfast for himself and his dad. Then he decided to continue with the mindless activity and make breakfast for Scott, Mrs. McCall, and Derek as well. It was all he could do to keep his mind from racing between the drug and banshee-related horrors that Lydia was enduring, alongside the abuse Brunski was inflicting on her. One little thought kept pushing its way into Stiles' head. _What if you're too late?_ He never could bring himself to answer the hypothetical.

Sometime around seven, the Sheriff came lumbering down the stairs, still clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a coffee-stained, torn T-shirt. He looked at Stiles, grumbled some hello, then walked over to the fridge to scrounge around for some food. Stiles cleared his throat.

"I made breakfast, Dad." Stiles said quietly, but clearly. His father rounded on him, looking critically at the food laid out on the table.

"Thanks," he slowly, picking up his mug, already filled with coffee. "You sleep at all?" Stiles shook his head but waved it off.

"Didn't need it. I'll sleep well enough tonight, though." He reasoned. His father grunted, raising his eyebrows. It was clearly still too early for him to face the task ahead of them. Stiles didn't begrudge him that.

By the time that Melissa and Scott showed up, Sheriff Stilinski was in uniform and properly awake. Stiles hadn't left his vigil in the kitchen, anxiously stacking up pancakes and plates of eggs and sausage.

"Hi Mrs. McCall, want some breakfast?" Stiles asked upon seeing her enter. Both Scott and his mother clearly saw through his pleasantry, and Melissa wrapped him in a hug before answering him.

"Breakfast would be lovely, Stiles. Thank you." She said warmly, moving towards the food. Scott clapped him on the back before taking a wolf's share of the eggs and sausage.

"Thanks man." Stiles nodded at them, warmed by their empathy.

When Derek finally arrived in his black SUV, Stiles was even more on edge. He shoved a plate of food wordlessly at Derek on his arrival. Derek raised his eyebrows but took the plate and sat down at the kitchen table across from Scott. Stiles didn't even bother making fun of the button up shirt and tie that Derek was wearing, and that seemed to draw some concern from the others, but no one said anything about it. Stiles didn't really notice their silent observation either.

He was busy trying to ignore the anxiety spiking in his throat, but the image of an emaciated, broken Lydia kept resurfacing in his mind's eye. He could practically hear the angry, acrid words rolling off her tongue. She hadn't bothered lying to him. The truth was too potent for that. It came to her with undeniable strength.

"Ready to go, buddy?" Scott wrapped a hand around the scruff of Stiles' neck and squeezed reassuringly. Stiles' eyes snapped up and he realized that the whole room was looking at him.

"Yeah," he said, his voice thick. "I'm ready."

The ride to Eichen House was dead silent, and Derek didn't even have the common courtesy to put on the radio. Stiles was sitting in the passenger seat, and on a normal day he wouldn't have thought twice about turning on some obnoxiously peppy music in order to irritate the driver, but he just couldn't rouse himself to make the effort. _Once Lydia's out_ , he thought, _I'll annoy the shit out of her again. I'll blast some stupid Katy Perry song and she'll roll her eyes, and everything will be fine._ He swallowed heavily and glued his eyes back to the road ahead of him.

When they rolled up to the mental facility, butterflies were swarming in his stomach. Before Derek shut off the engine, he looked over to Stiles.

"Are you going to be okay to come in with us?" Derek asked plainly. "It's going to suck, seeing her all doped up and sick, but I've got a lid on it. All of the rest of us do. Can you stay calm?" Stiles felt his nostrils flare as he worked to contain his irritation. Derek could be infuriatingly condescending at times. 

"I am calm." Stiles snapped back, the tension in his voice boldfacing his lie. Derek regarded him with raised eyebrows and huffed out a short sigh.

"I'll take your word for it. Just let me do the talking." Derek replied, turning off the SUV's engine and slipping out the door on his side. Stiles took a deep breath and willed himself to maintain control. _Everything will be fine,_ he reminded himself, _we'll get her out and everything will be fine_. The mantra was running obsessively through his mind, and he clung desperately to the possibility in the words.

Upon entering the building, they were greeted by the same secretary who denied Scott and Stiles entry on the first day they tried to visit. She seemed ready for Derek, Melissa and Michael, all dressed in their professional attire and looking the part. She stumbled, however, upon seeing Stiles and Scott again, and Stiles found a perverse sort of pleasure in that.

"I'll just… I'll page Dr. Wendell. He's expecting your group." The receptionist said weakly. After casting one last glance towards Scott and Stiles, she set about dialing up the proper extension. Less than a minute later, a beaky, older man with silver glasses and a stiff white doctor's coat came out of the door behind the reception desk. He squinted at them before squinting at the clipboard in his hand.

"Are you lot here for Lydia Martin?" The doctor asked, scowling at the group.

"We are," Derek said smoothly. Dr. Wendell sighed and ushered them through the door.

"Come back to my office, we’ll talk and then we can get Miss Martin for you." Derek inclined his head and Sheriff Stilinski, Melissa, Scott and Stiles filed in behind him.

"Dude," Scott hissed to Stiles. "It still smells weird. Like something supernatural is here." Stiles shushed him immediately.

" _Dude_." He answered back. "We'll deal with it later, I promise. Can we just focus right now?" Stiles begged. Scott might have been irritated by Stiles' dismissal, but he seemed to roll with it exceptionally well.

"Fine. Later." 

* * *

Once they were all seated in Dr. Wendell's spacious office, the man rounded on them.

"I am loathe to part with Miss Martin as a subject of study. She is an extremely interesting case of schizophrenia, and I have truly enjoyed observing her and speaking with her regarding her hallucinations." Stiles felt his hands ball up into fists. Dr. Wendell continued, unaware. "As a patient, however, she has been incredibly problematic. Despite the fact that I have been able to learn so much from her, what I have learnt is the product of very little time in therapy, and I know that with more time, I could have learned more from her. She has spent… oh, I'd say fourteen of her twenty days here in the closed ward due to her unruly behavior, and I have only spoken with her three times." Stiles couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope and pride warm him. She was still fighting then.

"I'm sorry if my client has been exceptionally difficult." Derek said stiffly. He might have shared Stiles' pride in Lydia, but he hid it well behind a mask of professional indifference. The doctor seemed to take well to Derek's clinical detachment, and he nodded, accepting Derek's apology.

"It's against my better judgment that I allow Miss Martin to leave this facility at this point in her treatment." Dr. Wendell continued. "She has been heavily medicated for the past week or so, often to the point of sedation because of her outbursts. She's not very stable." Stiles swallowed, hoping to clear the lump from his throat, his hope sputtering out. He noticed the way that Scott seemed to tense beside him as well.

"I assure you, this is what the Martin family wants, and it's under Ms. Natalie Martin's request that I relocate her daughter." Derek said. He reached into the briefcase he was carrying and pulled out a manila file of paperwork. "She is being relocated so that she may receive private care from an out of state specialist who has connections to the Martin family. As the acting attorney for Miss Martin, I'll need to have you sign off on a couple of points here before I obtain the external drive containing Miss Martin's files, as was previously agreed upon."

Dr. Wendell looked hard at Derek, as if trying to determine his legitimacy. However, he shrank when Derek flashed him a sharp, stern look.

"Of course, Mr. Hale. Let me just page a nurse, we'll gather up Martin's prescriptions and we'll have an orderly bring her out for you." He pushed a series of numbers on his desk phone and mumbled instructions into the receiver. Stiles had to strain his ears to really hear what was being said, but his heart jumped in his chest when he heard the phrase, "bring Martin out. She's transferring."

When he finished the call, Dr. Wendell sat down at the chair behind the desk to sign off on the assorted points on Derek's legal document. When he finished, he looked around critically at the different members of their party, his eyes resting on Stiles.

"She's under heavy medication right now, so you all need to understand that your friend isn't going to seem like herself." There was no question that the doctor was addressing Stiles at this point, not bothering to even give Scott or any of the others a second glance.

"We understand, sir." Derek spoke up for Stiles. Dr. Wendell's eyes remained trained on Stiles regardless, and he even leaned forward on his desk.

"You do realize that what we're doing here, while sort of scary, is going to help her, don't you son?" Dr. Wendell said plainly. "That she's not really going to seem like herself right now, but that's because the Lydia that you knew before was sick. We're helping her get better." Stiles gnawed on the inside of his cheek and nodded robotically, fighting back the urge to punch this man. _He doesn't know about banshees_ , he tried to reassure himself. _He's just trying to do what he thinks is right._

"We all understand that you're doing what's best for her," Scott spoke up, his voice heavy and low. His mother put a hand on his shoulder, but Scott didn't lean in towards her like he normally would. Dr. Wendell seemed to regard Scott's answer with some level of respect and satisfaction, because he bobbed his head and closed the file on his desk.

A knock on the door sounded and everyone in the room started, rising to their feet. The Hispanic nurse, Tellez, was the first to enter, her arms laden with numerous pill bottles and fluttering leaves of prescription paper. Behind her, being pushed out in a wheelchair, was Lydia. Scott, who hadn't seen her since her disappearance from school, made some pitiful noise between a gasp and a moan, and Stiles felt sick to his stomach. She looked even worse.

Her skin had taken on an almost jaundiced, yellow color and judging by the state of her hair, she hadn't showered since Stiles had last seen her. There was no IV stand attached to her this time, but the inside of her exposed left wrist and the back of her left hand were both cleanly bandaged, so Stiles could only guess she had been recently detached. Her expression was foggy, and unlike the time before, her eyes didn't light up with recognition when she looked at him. They just remained dark and detached, unseeing. But his heart clenched in his chest when he realized that she had his purple pillow pinned against her body with her right arm, gripping it like a lifeline.

"Lydia?" Stiles asked. His voice came out much squeakier than he had intended. Her gaze floated up to meet his, but her eye remained hooded, cloudy, and dull.  _She doesn't even recognize me._

He became vaguely aware that Scott wasn't fully focused on Lydia anymore, and when Stiles looked up, he recognized the orderly pushing Lydia's chair. He was the one who restrained Stiles when he had tried to fight Brunski. But as the orderly seemed to catch Scott's blatant stare and flaring nostrils, Stiles was shocked to see a ring of dark magenta alight in the orderly's irises. Stiles looked between the orderly and Scott with panic, fearing a standoff, but then proceeded to be even further confused when Derek stepped in.

"Damji, of all places. It's good to see you again." He said loudly, smiling wryly.

"And yourself, Mr. Hale." The orderly responded with a toothy grin.

"Thank you for taking care of Miss Martin for us," Derek said kindly, nodding at Stiles and Scott, then towards Lydia's dull-eyed form. Both Stiles and Scott remained still, frozen in slack-jawed shock.

"The least I could do, Mr. Hale. Anything for you," Damji said, inclining his head ever so slightly. With another small nod towards the doctor, Damji excused himself from the room, Nurse Tellez following in his wake. Dr. Wendell, who seemed equally confused by Damji and Derek's exchange, merely held out a small flash drive towards Derek.

"This has all the patient information on it, I expect it to be treated with the utmost care and confidentiality." Dr. Wendell said firmly. Derek nodded, then turned to look at Lydia, like the rest of the room had.

"You boys want to help her up?" Derek suggested. It was more of an order, really, but Scott and Stiles rushed to oblige. "Thank you, Dr. Wendell. We appreciate your cooperation in this ordeal." The doctor might have mumbled some pleasantry in response, but Stiles was deaf to it.

"Come on Lyds, let's get you out of here," he said in a hushed voice. He moved to her left side, with Scott flanking her on the right, and they gently brought her to a standing position between them. The boys' arms wrapped around her body under her arms, and they both coerced her arms to relax from their cramped and stiff positions against her body and wrap around their necks for more support.

She was too light between them, and Stiles' hand definitely detected the harsh ridges of her ribcage as it wrapped around her side. He had no doubt that he could have carried her on his own, and he sort of wished that he could. He craved the feeling of her body against his, if only to have some permanent reminder that she was alive, that she would be safe with him. Stiles tried not to notice that she was leaning into him more and more as they walked, and instead he whispered encouragements soft enough that only she would be able to hear.

Once they were out the front doors of Eichen House, Scott dropped the façade of being a normal teenager and swept Lydia up into his arms in a single, deft movement. His mother caught up to him on his right, her face drawn with worry as she looked down at the banshee.

"Oh sweetheart, what did they do to you?" She murmured. Stiles knew that it was more a question to herself than to the semi-conscious girl in Scott's arms. Lydia didn't even seem to notice that she wasn't on her own two feet anymore.

"Call Deaton," Derek instructed the group as a whole, skipping ahead so he could open the door to the back seat for Scott. The pain in his face was evident, and it only worried Stiles further. "He needs to see her as soon as possible."

"She's going to be okay though, right?" Scott asked Derek, his eyes darting up from Lydia only for a moment. Derek's pained expression intensified.

"Just get in the car, let's go." He replied shortly. Stiles had been scurrying along next to Scott and neurotically minding Lydia's neck and head, but as they approached the SUV, he scrambled into the first row of seats behind the driver ahead of Scott.

"I got her," he told Scott as he slid into the car. It was more of a command that he'd meant it to be, but Scott obliged, passing her limp body through the door. Stiles tried not to notice the way his friend could support Lydia's fragile weight with extended arms, and instead focused on cradling her onto his lap in a way that best supported her lolling neck. As he repositioned her in his lap, a faint moan escaped her lips, so quiet that he almost didn't hear.

"Stiles…" He pulled her closer into his chest, holding her tighter as if it would stop her shivering. Why was she shivering? She was in sweatpants and a hoodie, and the early morning sun had left the car stuffy and hot, to the point that Stiles was breaking into a sweat. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close so her temple was leaning up against his chin and the sharp edges of her hip bones dug into his stomach.

"I'm here, Lyds, I'm right here. You're safe now." Stiles murmured, pressing his lips to the skin just in front of her ear. She seemed to shudder at the touch and momentarily resist, before relaxing into his arms more fully, eyes closed.

Scott slid onto the jump seat next to Stiles, his mother on his other side. Derek took the driver's seat with the Sheriff sitting shotgun.

"She doing okay there?" Stiles' father asked, turning around in his seat and peering back at his son. Stiles didn't answer, he just slowly rocked Lydia in his arms, his lips brushing against her forehead as he whispered reassurances too quiet for the humans in the car to hear. His eyes were fixed on a point ahead of him, but they were distant and unfocused.

"Just go," Scott instructed wearily, his eyes darting up to the front seat for just a moment before returning to Lydia. Her legs were sprawled perpendicular across his lap, and his hands found their place on her ankles and calves, rubbing against the soft jersey material of her sweatpants, trying to administer some extra reassurance and comfort. She looked so small in Stiles' arms. "And will someone please call Deaton?" 

* * *

When they pulled up to the loft, Scott offered to carry Lydia up to the elevator and into the apartment that Derek had set aside for her on the floor below the loft. Stiles refused the help, shifting her weight in his arms so he was cradling her against his chest.

"She's not heavy at all. I can do it." He reasoned. No one had the heart to stop him, not with the way he was looking at her, eyes warm as honey and filled with worry. She was safe with him. There was no question to that.

"The elevator's pretty tiny. We'll take the stairs up and meet you there, alright?" Derek told Stiles after they'd punched the call button for the elevator. "Scott, you can stay with him, the rest of us will walk." The Sheriff looked a little miffed by Derek making that offer on his behalf, but with a light touch on his arm, Melissa pulled him away towards the stairs. Once the door to the stairwell had closed behind the adults, Scott let out a shaky sigh.

" _Fuck_ , dude." He said, his voice hoarse. "Was she this bad when you saw her last?" Stiles shook his head, his hands gripping Lydia a little tighter. They stepped into the elevator and Scott hit the button for their floor.

"She wasn't doing great, but she was conscious. We had a full conversation and everything." Stiles said, his voice matching Scott's. "She looked sick, but she was awake enough to yell at me still." A dark smile flickered across his face at the memory. Even when she was drugged out of her mind, Lydia Martin could cow him into silence. It was funny, the things that he started to miss when she wasn't around anymore.

"She's so sick," Scott said miserably. "We should have noticed. We should have done something."

"Well we didn't."Stiles snapped. "And now it's up to us to fix her, okay? We fucked up, but we can't change that, we weren't there for her, but we can't go back and be there for her again. We spent all our time with other people, we thought she was fine, we didn't even realize that after Allison-" Stiles' voice choked off, thick with sadness. One of the tears that escaped him ran down his cheek to drip into Lydia's raggedy hair. Her hair that was so dark and dirty that it didn't even look to be strawberry blonde anymore.

The bell indicating their gradual ascent past each floor echoed loudly, the only sound in the carriage. As they ascended past the final floor, Scott looked over to Stiles, his face determined.

"We'll fix her, Stiles. I swear it."

"We don't have another option, Scotty," Stiles said gravely. The elevator doors slid open, and Derek was waiting for them.

"Your dad took a break at the fourth floor. Said I was a masochist." Derek said, nodding to Stiles. He glanced over at Scott. "Your mom's waiting for him to catch his breath. They'll be up in a minute. I'll let you guys into the apartment now, though." Stiles bobbed his head in consent.

As Derek led them over the threshold, Scott's phone pinged.

"Kira wants to know if she can come over." Scott recited, reading off his phone. He looked between Derek and Stiles, as if unsure of who to ask.

"Fine with me," Derek said over his shoulder, trekking easily down one of the halls of the unit. It wasn't that different from the loft, except for its containment to one floor. The back wall of the apartment was all glass, just like his, and the late morning light coming in was exceptionally peaceful.

"Just tell her that Lyds is probably going to be asleep still. She's not going to be able to chat or anything." Stiles said dismissively. He didn't have anything against the kitsune, he just understood that sometimes he had to set very specific expectations for her. Kira always meant well, though.

Stiles followed Derek back through the apartment, which was far more comfortably furnished than the loft above was. The walls and décor all followed an earthy color tone, and the dark greens, burnt auburns, and subtle golds would surely be to Lydia's taste when she woke up.

The back bedroom that Derek led him to was beautiful. It was darker than the rest of the house, with misty grey-blue painted walls and dark blue curtains on the walls. The room was most prominently occupied by a king-sized bed with a dark brown headboard and footboard and a plush dark blue comforter. Stiles didn't think he could have counted all the pillows if he tried.

"I hope this is alright. I mean, I'm not much of a designer…" Derek trailed off quietly, scratching the back of his neck. Stiles gave him a look of disbelief, his eyebrows drawing together and his jaw practically unhinging.

"You did this? You decorated this place?" Stiles asked.

"I own the building. Some of the stuff was from the previous tenants, I bought some of it myself." Derek admitted, his face flushing. He looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Thank you." Stiles said seriously, looking at Derek for a good long moment. "We couldn't have done this without you." Derek ducked his head in acceptance of Stiles' thanks. His eyes then dropped down to Lydia.

"We haven't really done this yet though, have we?" Derek asked, watching Lydia with hard eyes. If he was afraid, the emotion was well hidden. But the pain Derek was feeling was clear to see.

"I guess not," Stiles said, his gaze returning to the girl in his arms as well.

"I'll… I guess I'll go take the rest of them up to the loft while we wait for Deaton." Derek said lamely. It was clear that Stiles needed to be alone with her at that point. "You going to be alright getting her situated here?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I've got it," Stiles said distantly, bringing Lydia over to the massive bed and laying her down atop the covers so he could reorganize the pillows around her. He didn't even hear Derek close the door behind him.

When he gently placed her down, his shoulders sagged slightly from the relief of their burden, and simultaneously a little sigh escaped Lydia's lips as she sank into the pillows. For a brief moment, she looked the way he remembered her, face peaceful, lips curled into a petulant little smile, and of course, not looking at him at all.

Stiles let his thumb graze over the sharp contours of her cheekbones and while his hand cupped her jaw, noting the absence of her dimples. It must have been because of all the weight she lost. His stomach dropped out at the thought, and he leaned back faintly, only to discover that there was a plush armchair right along the side of the bed. He hadn't noticed it before, and realized that its presence was Derek's doing.

As he sank into the chair beside Lydia's bed, Stiles made a mental note to get Derek an edible arrangement or something when this was all over. He vaguely wondered whether or not Derek even ate normal stuff like fruit. The room was spinning slightly, and it was only when he was fully collapsed into the chair that he realized how exhausted he actually was.

Sleep deprivation was a funny thing. He had gone days and weeks with so little sleep, but it was only hitting him just now. When Lydia was there by his side, and safe for the time being. Stiles fought valiantly against the ever mounting weight of his eyelids, but eventually, he just succumbed to it.

He thought he heard her say his name, but that couldn't be. She was sleeping.

Huh. 

* * *

_"Stiles," Lydia begged."Please. Do something! Help me!" He just looked on with that same, mildly concerned apathy on his face while Lydia cradled Allison's dying body in her hands._

_"Lydia," Allison croaked at her. "Don't let me go alone. I'm scared, Lydie." Tears were streaming from her best friend's eyes, and Lydia felt her own salty tears slip down her cheeks, her heart banging out an erratic rhythm in her chest._

_"You said not to, you made me promise I wouldn't go with you." Lydia choked in response. "You said I had to live, live for you." Allison laughed, but it sounded more like a sob._

_"And you told me not to come find you, but I did, even though I knew there was danger there. Even though I knew I might die. We're sisters, Lydia. I thought you knew that. Sisters do things for each other. I wouldn't let you die alone like this." Allison's eyes were getting distant and her breath hitched in her chest, blood bubbling from her lips._

_"Oh god, no, no, Allison, no!" Lydia screeched. But it was too late, and Allison had gone still in her arms. Stiles regarded the scene as if nothing of consequence had really happened._

_"Just look what you've done, Lydia." Stiles said, shaking his head at her. "Such a shame. You let her down one last time before she died- how fitting."_

_"I didn't mean to-"_

_"That's just your problem, Lydia. When was the last time you did something and meant it? Said something and really meant it? When was the last time you really felt something for someone other than your pathetic, whiny, helpless self?" Stiles sneered. Lydia remained kneeling on the ground, with Allison's lifeless body strewn over her lap, but she coughed out another desolate sob._

_"I'm sorry," she whispered. "For everything. I need you, Stiles." He doubled over in maniacal laughter, and she tried to swallow back the sobs building in her throat._

_"You need me? As if! Lydia, sweetheart, since I've known you, you've made one thing very clear: you have never, and will never need me. And you know what? I'm fine with that now! Now that I know how fucked up you really are? Holy shit, I can't believe I ever loved you. You're a freak."_

_"You… don't…" Lydia couldn't bring herself to form words in response. Stiles cackled again before adopting an incredibly serious expression._

_"Of course I mean it." He snapped. Then he reached back and threw something to her. She stared at the instrument blankly, understanding what his actions were saying._

_"This is the blade that killed her." Lydia whispered._

_"Smart cookie." Stiles quipped. "Now why don't you put it to some good use and go follow the one person who actually gives a shit whether or not you live or die?" He cocked his head as he said it, and Lydia was reminded vaguely of the time when the Nogitsune possessed Stiles' body. But this was Stiles. She just knew it was. And he wanted her dead._

_Lydia turned and looked down again at the corpse of her best friend. The body was already cold as ice against her legs. She glanced back up at Stiles again, and he mockingly made a slashing motion across his own throat with two fingers, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth at the end for dramatic effect._

_She steadied herself before drawing the blade up to point down at her gut. It was the same way that Stiles had held the katana to himself all those months ago, back when he was sure that death was the only escape._

_The only difference between that moment and this one, was that back then, Lydia knew that Stiles was wrong._

_With the tip of the katana grazing across her lower abdomen, Lydia knew that she was right._

_"Allison, forgive me," she whispered._

_Then she plunged the blade downward._

_She could not contain the scream that erupted from her throat. A scream announcing her own death. She had always wondered if that would happen when she died._

_Once she had exhausted her lungs, she fell dizzily off to her side and landed facing Allison. With a shaking, bloody hand, she reached out and grasped at the archer's drawing hand, her first two fingers still encased in their black leather bow guard._

_Allison's hand was warm again, pulsing with life. Lydia could have sworn that she saw Allison smile._

_But then it was all gone._

_And all that she was aware of was a voice, shouting her name over and over, and a pair of hands shaking her shoulders._

_She had hoped that death would be more peaceful._  

* * *

Stiles had just relented and allowed himself to drift into sleep at Lydia's bedside when her scream rocked him into consciousness. He had fallen out of his chair while scrambling to cover his ears. The sound of it died down quickly and he realized that Lydia was sobbing in her bed, her body convulsing violently as she scratched at a point in her abdomen. He scrambled to his feet and leaned over onto the bed, grabbing one of her hands in his.

"Lydia!" He tried gently. She didn't react to his voice at all. Panic rose within him, and he took her by the shoulders, his voice beginning to escalate. "Lydia, wake up, it's just a dream, Lyds, you're okay, I'm here with you. Lydia! Lydia, come on, wake up! Lydia? _Lydia!_ " With the last call of her name, her thrashing and sobbing stopped abruptly. Then, hazily her eyes drifted open. When she managed to focus on his face, the fear in her eyes was painfully apparent.

The door burst open behind him, and Scott led a veritable parade of concerned faces into the room. Derek was just off his right shoulder, Kira right off his left. Deaton and the Sheriff hung back behind the main throng of the crowd, while Melissa pushed her way forward to Stiles' side.

"What the hell was that?" She asked, grabbing at Lydia's wrist and feeling for a pulse. When she found it, she gave the pack a reassuring look, and they all let out a collective sigh.

"We heard the scream." Scott clarified for Stiles, his voice thick. "And we thought she had…" Stiles watched almost curiously as his best friend swiped away angry, worried tears.

"I don’t know what happened," Stiles admitted breathlessly. "It was like one minute she was asleep and I was dozing off in the chair and the next I'm getting my ear drums blasted out by her scream." Scott looked at him, radiating concern, but then his gaze shifted down to Lydia and his eyes widened.

"Scotty," Lydia croaked, a gaunt and unfamiliar smile stretching at the pale skin of her face.

"Hey Lydie, how're you doing?" Scott replied somewhat breathlessly. Stiles watched the exchange, dumbfounded.

"I thought I was dead."

"We heard you scream." Scott's eyebrows knit together, and he averted his eyes uncomfortably. Lydia must have noticed that to some degree, because she shifted gears.

"Sorry I've been MIA." This prompted a weak chuckle from the alpha. Lydia's lips twisted further into a smirk. "Don't worry though… I think I've got a doctor's note."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I haven't really been hearing from a lot of you guys much in the last couple of chapters, so I'm assuming all is well? I hope this story is still a fun read for you guys; if it's not, please tell me! I really would love feedback, be it positive or negative. I'm writing this for you guys as much as I'm writing it for myself! Plus I definitely write more quickly when I have (user)names and concrete people that I know I'm writing for, it really fuels me!
> 
> So leave a comment, or message me at [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you!


	8. Stay With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia communicates on Allison's behalf before the sickness threatens to overtake her.

Lydia’s mind was still a little fuzzy as she watched her friends mill around her room. The dream she’d awoken from didn’t help with her confusion. And despite the fact that everyone from Melissa McCall to Kira Yukimura was trying to talk to her, Lydia couldn’t help but sneak looks at Stiles, who hadn’t moved from his vigil behind the armchair. He was watching her with no pretense of covertness. It was refreshing.

Eventually, Derek must have picked up on her distracted and exhausted state, because he gave her shoulder a tight, reassuring squeeze and turned to address the group crowding the bed.

“I’m going to go back up to the loft, make some food and wait for Deaton to get back to us. We should probably give Lydia some breathing space,” he suggested firmly.

“I’ll help.” Kira said immediately. Lydia noted the kitsune’s enthusiasm with amusement. Of course Kira wanted to help. It was simply who she was.

“I’ll come up too, it’s getting a little stuffy in here anyways,” Sheriff Stilinski sounded off from near the door. Lydia hadn’t even realized that he was there. But as he moved away from his spot in the corner, Lydia blanched. Allison was standing in the place the Sheriff had just vacated.

It felt like forever ago that Lydia had last seen Allison outside of Eichen House. And she had never seen the spectre in the presence of her friends before. Somehow, the current context made everything all the more painful. Allison should have been able to interact with them, she should have been leaning up against Scott or making polite, but never artificial, small talk with Melissa. Hell, she could have been teasing Stiles about his days of online gaming but she was just… watching.

“Lydia, can I ask how you’re doing?” A sweet, warm voice asked softly from her right. Having been in her stupor regarding the ghost in the corner, Lydia jumped at the voice as if a gunshot had gone off. This set into motion a good deal of shushing and other patronizing noises.

When she whipped around, Lydia realized that it was Mrs. McCall who had spoken, and that it was now just herself, Melissa, Scott and Stiles left in the room. She hadn’t even realized that the rest of the pack had gone.

“Lydia?” Scott was the one who spoke this time, and in her peripheral vision, Lydia saw a blur of dark hair and pale skin. Suddenly, Allison was within arm's length of Scott, and she was looking at him with an intensely mournful expression, holding her hands to her chest as if restraining herself from reaching out to him.

“Do you want me to tell him something?” Lydia asked her friend, forgetting herself momentarily. She was just too accustomed to speaking to Allison’s memory freely. Stiles, Scott, and Melissa shared a quizzical look.

“Lydia, who are you talking to?” Scott hedged carefully.

“Not you, now hush,” Lydia replied blearily, squinting to get a better view of Allison. Stiles snorted, but didn't fight back.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Allison told her reproachfully. The spectre’s voice, however, told a different story. One of longing.

“As if you even believe that.” Lydia said irritably, squeezing her eyes shut and scrubbing a hand over her face in hopes of delaying the familiar migraine that was settling into her temples. “You want to talk to Scott or no?”

“Yes,” Allison whispered.

“Lydia,” Stiles started nervously.

“Shut up Stiles, Allison’s talking,” Lydia interrupted coolly. She felt the three living people around her tense up, and she groaned inwardly. They were going to think she was crazy. A small part of her cared about that. But a much bigger part of her didn’t give two shits anymore.

“Ask him if he’s doing alright?” Allison squeaked. Lydia forced her eyes back open and leaned forward to look around Melissa to give the ghost of her friend a scathing look.

“Really? That’s all you’ve got?” She snarked. Allison glared at her and bobbed her head in Scott’s direction. Lydia sighed and looked at the werewolf to her right. “Allison wants to know if you’re doing alright.” Scott’s face paled considerably, and Melissa looked somewhat frantically between her son and the banshee. Stiles put a hand on one of Lydia’s shoulders.

“Are you saying that you’re talking to Allison right now?” Stiles asked faintly. “Allison Argent?” Lydia rolled her eyes and glanced over at Stiles.

“Obviously.” She shrugged away from his hand and turned back to Scott. “So are you alright or what? She’s waiting for an answer.”

“I’m uh, I’m fine. I’m doing okay. Can you ask her how she is? Is she in heaven or something?” Scott asked timidly. Both Allison and Lydia snorted simultaneously at Scott’s question, but Lydia realized that to the rest of the room, it looked as if she was laughing alone at Scott’s pain.

“Sorry, she said something funny,” Lydia lied easily. This was readily accepted by her small, living audience, but Allison scoffed.

“Liar,” the spectre shot.

“Shut up,” Lydia snapped back.

“Me?” Scott asked pitifully.

“Not you. Allison,” Lydia clarified. Melissa looked baffled by the entire exchange, whereas Stiles was silent, eyes wide and brow furrowed as he watched her intently.

“Did she answer my question?” Scott asked. Lydia caught the hint of desperation in his voice, and she sobered up, looking in Allison’s direction, giving her a tired, but questioning look.

“I’m really good. I’m not in heaven yet, but tell him I’m working on it.” Allison said. Her expression matched Scott’s and Lydia’s heart swelled in her chest. She turned back to Scott and gave him a wide smile, despite the fact that tears were welling in her eyes.

“She says she’s really good. And she’s not in heaven yet, but she’s close.” Scott moved purposefully in the direction that Lydia had faced when she had been speaking to Allison, his eyes searching desperately for some sort of sign.

“Can she see me?” He asked.

“Yes,” Lydia answered on Allison’s behalf. “You’re less than a foot away from her, actually.” While Scott looked awestruck by this information, his mother was a little more skeptical.

“Honey, you’ve been very sick and very confused for a long time now-”

“Mrs. McCall, there’s no need to talk down to me.” Lydia huffed. Her headache was getting stronger now, and her mood was tanking in its wake. “Meredith Walker explained this to me while I was in Eichen House. It’s a banshee thing. Allison was one of my anchors, my tethers. And when she died, I didn’t let go of that tether. So I can still hear her… and see her. It really is her.”

Mrs. McCall was stunned into a proper silence.

“You can prove it. Ask her something that Lydia wouldn’t know the answer to.” Stiles suggested lightly. Lydia rolled her eyes before twisting to face him. He threw her a tentative smile and she raised her eyebrows in response. The exchange almost felt normal. But then she turned back around to see Scott watching her, his expression pained.

“What did we do for her seventeenth birthday?” Scott asked. Lydia paused and looked to Allison expectantly. She didn’t know. She hadn’t gone in to school that day, but instead she’d gotten stoned on prescription medication and hid in her room. In her defense, it had been the morning after the first time she had seen a werewolf.

“We cut class. He made me do it,” Allison admitted quietly, smiling at the memory. “And he took me to the forest preserve.”

“You two cut class, definitely not Allison’s idea, and you took her to the forest preserve,” Lydia said, unable to finish the sentence without wincing at the throbbing in her head. Stiles appeared to take notice her discomfort, tentatively inching closer to her side until his shirttail was brushing up against her elbow. Lydia unconsciously leaned into his side, and the mounting pain in her head seemed to level out. It still hurt to keep her eyes open, but at least the stabbing intensity was no longer increasing.

The effect of her physical contact with Stiles was enough to pique Lydia’s interest, but instead of dwelling on it, she turned instead to face Scott, who looked stunned.

“You let that girl tell her father that it was her idea to cut class when it was your’s?” Melissa asked, mock irritation coloring her tone. Even in her condition, Lydia could see the amusement in Mrs. McCall’s eyes, even amongst the sadness. Scott blushed a fine pink, before turning back to Lydia with a newfound look of appreciation.

“Yeah, I guess I did. But no one else knew about it… Especially not Lydia. She stayed home sick from school that day.” Scott said. His eyes were bright and wet, and Lydia should have had the decency to look away, but for a good hard minute, she stared at him. Well, at him and at the memory of Allison who was crying too.

“Tell him I love him,” Allison said, her voice hushed. Lydia’s tongue felt heavy, delivering such a message from her deceased friend. But it needed to be said.

“She asked me to tell you that she loves you.”Lydia said thickly. Scott’s eyes were brimming with tears, and he nodded rapidly, as if Lydia’s words had reinvigorated him with some new purpose.

“I love her too. And I miss her.” Scott said, sniffing and wiping the back of his hand against his nose. If only he knew the way that Allison was staring at him, only inches away. Allison’s hand was raised up as if she was going to reach out and touch Scott’s face, but after a few moments of broken contemplation, she let her arm drop again, dissolving into broken, miserable sobs. Lydia couldn’t bring herself to narrate the scene. It felt too private, even if she was the only living person who could see the whole picture.

“I don’t want to be dead,” the girl managed to choke out between sobs. “I don’t want to be dead.”

Lydia reached out a hand, to Allison, and Scott seemed to take in as an invitation. Both he and Allison reached out simultaneously, and both wrapped their hand tight around her own. The effect was instantaneous. The feeling of both hands squeezing hers in tandem, bridging the gap between life and death, threw Lydia’s headache into a level of pain that she had never known to exist.

When she screamed, both Allison and Scott let go, jumping back, but each seemed to cradle their own hand, looking at Lydia with awe. Stiles was crowding her face instantly, saying things that Lydia couldn’t hear or just simply couldn’t process. Her stomach rolled heavily, and she doubled over heaving, twisting her torso so that her head was suspended over the edge of the bed.

“Lydia?!” Stiles cried, taking her shoulders and bending over to try and catch her eye.

“Move, Stiles,” Melissa commanded, sliding down to squat in front of Lydia. She was back in more familiar territory again, and she grabbed a trash bin and held it up to the banshee who promptly expelled what little was left in her stomach. She retched a few more times and tasted the acidic, yellow stomach bile as it forced its way out.

“Shit,” Lydia gasped, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.

“You’re okay, honey, it’s okay, lay back down, you just pushed it too much, you’re okay,” Melissa reassured her, taking the bin back as if it held nothing but water. She smoothed back Lydia’s hair gently. Lydia felt Mrs. McCall’s hand slide over her forehead, fingers like ice. Lydia shuddered and closed her eyes, a low moan escaping her lips.

“Boys, she’s burning up, I need to look at her files again and go home and get my kit,” Melissa breathed, flipping her hand over on Lydia’s forehead so that she could double check the girl’s temperature with the back of her hand. The flaming heat beneath her touch was no less substantial.

“I felt her. I felt Allison.” Scott said numbly, as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened at all. “I felt her hand just now.”

“Well, whatever you just felt, it wasn’t good for Lydia,” Melissa said, catching her son’s eye and looking at him severely. Scott seemed to take his mother’s words into account and glanced around the room quickly, catching himself up to speed.

“Right. I’m sorry. I’ll get the files. They’re just upstairs.” Scott answered somewhat sheepishly, starting towards the door. His eyes lingered around Lydia’s bedside, where he had felt the familiar warmth of Allison’s hand atop his. But then he shook his head, righting himself, and he slipped out the door.

Melissa set to busying herself cleaning out the trash bin in the en suite, but Stiles moved in closer to Lydia’s side, one of his hands spanning the back of her neck and gently tracing his thumb over the ridge of vertebrae at the junction of her neck and back.

“Stiles?” Lydia finally addressed him, forcing her eyes open in spite of the world spinning around her. Stiles’ face instantly reentered her frame of vision, his warm, brown eyes tense with worry. There were dark blue and purple bags under his eyes, only accentuated by his own paleness, and Lydia felt a pang of guilt run through her.

“Yeah, Lyds, I’m here, what do you need?” He replied, his voice low and calm despite the tension in his expression. He even let a hand brush over her hairline, gentle and soothing. He was not as cold to the touch as Melissa had been.

“Please stay,” Lydia rasped. The stomach bile had given her tongue an uncomfortably dry and chalky feeling, and her words felt clumsy in her mouth.

“Are you alright to stay with her, Stiles?” Melissa intruded, her voice clinical, but not totally devoid of warmth. The quiet clunk of plastic against hardwood told Lydia that she was back with the emptied bin.

“Yeah, fine, definitely.” Stiles sounded jumpy, but his voice didn’t waver.

“If she gets sick again, you call me, okay? I should be back in an hour or two anyways, I’m going to stop home, at the hospital, then the grocery store, but keep me updated.” Melissa instructed him.

“Yeah, yeah, I will, Mrs. McCall. Thank you.” Stiles replied again. Footsteps signalled Mrs. McCall’s exit, and to Lydia, they sounded as loud as canons. She felt Stiles’ hand sweep down from her hairline to press against her forehead, and she winced, the pressure agitating her headache despite the the overall balm that contact with Stiles seemed to provide.

“Stiles?” She asked again, squinting up at him. Before she could continue, she tasted the familiar rancid tang of bile in her throat, and it was enough to induce another round of heaves. Stiles said nothing when she started retching, but held up the bucket for her again, rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades with his free hand. When her stomach settled back down some, she leaned back and closed her eyes, tears leaking down across her cheeks of their own accord.

“Hey, Lyds, you okay?” Stiles’ voice was too loud, and her head pounded, but somehow, she didn’t mind it entirely. Stiles’ voice meant that this was real. She wasn’t in Eichen House anymore.

“I’ve been worse,” she said, smiling sheepishly up at him. Her words had a stronger effect than she had intended, and Stiles looked even more aggravated.

“Lyds,” he whined, exasperated.

“I’m okay,” she corrected herself a little too hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re crying, Lydia.” Stiles said quietly. Lydia raised a shaky hand to her cheek and was surprised by the wetness tracking down the side of her face. _Oh_.

* * *

Stiles held his breath for a moment, watching as Lydia shifted under the dark grey blankets. Every movement seemed too strenuous, causing her to grimace or wince. She wearily brought a hand up to brush against the tear tracks marking up her face. He didn’t know whether her tears were a product of her vomiting or just a display of her misery, but either way, she seemed surprised that they were there at all.

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Lydia said sullenly, smearing the trails of her tears across her cheekbones.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Stiles reasoned with her. “It’s okay to be a little freaked out.” She turned her head to look at him but paused to swallow heavily, eyes pressed closed. Judging by the way she was tipping slightly to one side, she was experiencing some intense vertigo.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you. When you visited me in Eichen.” Lydia muttered, the speed of her voice urgent despite the almost drunken slurring of her words. Stiles pawed a hand over his mouth and slid into the armchair at her side, trying to reign in the intense, and uncomfortable variety of emotions he was feeling.

Here she was, still one foot in the grave, and she was apologizing for calling him, and all of the pack on their bullshit. She had never been apologetic before, not really. Or at least, she’d never been the type to placate or compensate for shortcomings with apology.

“Lydia, you don’t have to apologize for that, we deserved to get chewed out- I deserved it. You were sick and the pack wasn’t taking care of you the way we should have.” Stiles said plainly. Lydia seemed to consider this, heaving a short sigh.

“But yelling at you wasn’t the right way to communicate that.” She reasoned. “Especially because of all I learned about tethers. Pushing you away like that was the stupidest thing that I could’ve done.” She was reciting this attrition with closed eyes and hands helplessly knotted together. Stiles reached over and covered her hands with one of his own, almost recoiling at how cold her fingers were to the touch.

“You still need to explain that one to me a little more, I didn’t really get it all when we were back at Eichen.” Stiles asked, his eyes jumping nervously from their intertwined hands to Lydia’s eyes, which slid open reluctantly. She opened and closed her mouth several times, as if trying to find the words, or perhaps the nerve to say them.

“I… I need you, Stiles.” Lydia said finally. “It’s not fair for me to expect anything of you, but I need you.” Stiles covered his mouth with his free hand, and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head of the shock he was feeling.

“How? I mean, what do you need?” He asked, his hand tightening over hers. She untangled her fingers and adjusted her hands to sandwich Stiles’ hand between hers, fidgeting as she seemed to struggle for words.

“You and Allison were my emotional tethers. My anchors. You guys have kept me sane with the whole banshee thing.” Lydia licked her chapped lips before continuing. “And when Allison died and you and I kind of drifted apart, I started to lose it. As a banshee, I’m attuned to the world of the living and the world of the dead. And since my tether to Allison was the strongest one I had left, I just sort of started to follow her…”

“To the other side.” Stiles finished for her, his throat tight. Lydia nodded.

“It’s why I can see her. It’s why I’ve spent so much time in fugue states. She’s pulling me towards death… and, it’s a sort of sickness for banshees. When their strongest tether dies. It’s why so many banshees kill themselves.” Lydia explained delicately. Stiles faltered.

“She’s… making you suicidal?” He asked weakly.

“Not exactly.” Lydia said defensively. She paused, then allowed her shoulders to sag. “I mean, sort of. But I don’t have to be. I’m supposed to be able to let go of her, cut the tether, and that would fix everything.” Stiles let out a sigh of relief.

“Then do it!” He said incredulously, rocking their intertwined hands in her lap. She forcefully stilled the motion and locked her eyes on his.

“That’s where I need you.” She said. She was nervous, Stiles realized. Why the hell was she nervous?

“Okay, great, what do I do?” He asked her, bringing his second hand up to fully encompass hers. “Just tell me what I need to do, Lyds.”

“I-I can’t ask you to…” She stuttered on her words, and her trepidation made Stiles’ heart ache. “I need us to be… well, not exactly like we were before, but I want us to…” Tears were pricking at the corner of her eyes, and Stiles felt his mouth fall open of its own accord.

“Lydia!” He said, half whining her name and half laughing. “Just tell me what you need me to be!”

“I don’t know, Stiles!” Lydia practically shrieked. “I don’t know, because I want to say that I want us to be best friends again, but I can’t just… I don’t want just that anymore!”

Stiles stared at her, awestruck.

“Are you saying that you want…?” He trailed off awkwardly, not allowing himself to even dare and hope. Her face flushed a bright and blotchy pink.

“I know you and Malia are a thing, and even if you weren’t, it’s not fair for me to ask you this, to say my life is on the line and you have to be my stupid knight in stupid Mets colors and save me, and I get it if you want to walk away right now. And if you did I wouldn’t blame you.” Lydia said, her voice rushed and uncertain and flustered. Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time Lydia had acted on a crush. He was fairly certain she had never had to chase anyone in her entire life. Regardless, her technique could use work.

“Lydia,” he said softly, shifting slightly so as to catch her downcast gaze. “Lyds. Malia and I aren’t a thing anymore. And I’m not walking away. I’m not.” Lydia’s eyes darted up for a moment, and when she finally met his gaze, his face broke into a smile.

“You’ll stay?” She asked, her voice tiny. He allowed himself to laugh.

“I know we’ve been shitty friends to you these past months, Lyds, but do you really not know what friendship feels like? What love feels like?” Stiles’ laugh died in the back of his throat when he saw the way that Lydia bit her lip and averted her eyes. His hands jumped up to grab her shoulders, and he shifted so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed, forcing her to face him. “Do you know what it means when someone loves you? It means that your burden is mine to share. You shouldn’t feel guilty for needing me. I want you to be okay, because if you’re not okay, I’m not okay… Get it?”

“Got it.” She whispered. The tears dripped from the apple of her cheek because her smile was so broad, there was no where else for them to go.

“Good.” He keened, leaning in and pressing his forehead into hers. “Because you are so important to me Lydia. I lost sight of that, and I’m so sorry that I did.”

“Don’t be,” she breathed. “Even with all that happened in the past few months, I never knew what it felt like to have a real friend before the pack. Before Allison. And you…” She exhaled softly and leaned a little more into him, the pressure between their foreheads building slightly, but the tension she was holding in her posture seemed to release all at once.

Stiles shifted their position ever so slightly, letting his head drift to the side so that his chin dropped to rest on her shoulder and her forehead in the crook of his neck. Relief was exuding off of Lydia in waves, and Stiles felt that her calmness was catching. For a minute, they just breathed each other in, feeling the blessed release of the fearful tension they had both been holding. Then, of course, it was Stiles who broke the silence.

“Lydia,” he started gently.

“Hmm?” She responded with a gentle, sleepy hum, and Stiles knew that his window for a conversation was closing.

“How can I help you? What do you want me to be?” He asked, his lips brushing over the pliant cartilage of her ear. He felt her lips curl into a grin against his chest.

“Just be Stiles.” She murmured into his shirt. “I think I love it best when you’re just my Stiles.” His heart skipped a beat and he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as chills ran through him. Sure, there had been a ten year plan. There had been many plans. But he never really expected to ever end up here, arms wrapped around her, with her saying that all she needed was him.

He wanted to say something profound. He wanted to tell her he loved her. Instead, he coughed awkwardly.

“Well that’s good, because if you’re looking for Scott he’s one story up,” Stiles tried meekly. Lydia snorted and lazily swung one limp hand into his shoulder blade. Stiles feigned injury with a dramatic moan.

“Juvenile.” She said, reluctantly sitting back upright.

“Pretentious.” Stiles shot back.

“Touche.” Lydia mumbled, stifling a yawn. Her eyes were bleary, and Stiles saw that she was only moments away from sleep.

“Okay, Little Miss Sunshine, you’re taking a nap,” Stiles said, smiling fixedly and reaching one arm around Lydia. He pulled her back off the pillows behind her, then discarded a half dozen decorative shams off the bed so that she could lay down more comfortably. But when he tried to slip his arm back out from underneath her and back away, she caught his wrist and cracked an eye open.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” She asked petulantly.

“I’m offended that you even ask,” Stiles scoffed, gently pulling out of her grasp and readjusting the comforter to tuck her in. Once she seemed settled, Stiles leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. He swallowed hard when he realized that the fever was still raging within her, leaving her face hot and flushed while the rest of her was shivering.

“Stiles?” She breathed, eyes pulling open again.

“Lydia?” Stiles mimicked, smiling.

“Will you…” She stopped and winced slightly, causing Stiles to scowl. The headache must have been lingering as well. “When we’re touching, the pain is so much less…” Stiles nodded in understanding, taking her hand and holding it tight in his grasp. God, her fingers were so cold.

“I’ll be right here beside you the whole time.” He promised. “Even if I have to pee really bad, I’m your man, I’m staying here.”

“Eww, Stiles,” she moaned, a smile creeping past the frown she was trying so hard to maintain.

“You know what I mean,” Stiles amended, mentally marking her good humor down as an improvement.

Lydia still seemed dissatisfied with their arrangement.

“Stiles,” she started again, her voice even softer. “Can you lay with me so it doesn’t hurt?”

Wordlessly, Stiles kicked off his shoes and stripped his sweatshirt off over his head. Then he circled around to the other side of the bed, climbing into it so that he was sitting up straight with his back against the pillows, but his legs warm beneath the covers.

Before Stiles could ask what she needed him to do, Lydia crawled over to him and tucked herself into the V of his legs as if they had done this a million times before, resting her back up against his chest. She sighed audibly and leaned back softly against him, snuggling into the warmth of his core. Stiles hesitated only for a moment before reaching around her waist and chest to hug her body into him more tightly. Her hands ghosted up, both latching on to the warm, exposed skin of his forearms, as if she simply could not be close enough to him.

She was all angles in his arms, with sharp bones and joints digging into his stomach and arms. It reinstated that mournful sadness in Stiles’ chest, and he just took to rocking her softly against him, pressing kisses into her hair and onto her ear and the back of her neck. She leaned into every touch, craving the contact with a fierce desperation.

However, the tightness of her grasp gradually decreased and her breathing eventually evened out as sleep took her, and Stiles felt himself succumbing to the darkness as well. It had been so long since he had allowed himself a good night of sleep. But before he released himself to the sweet beckoning of unconsciousness, he pressed one last kiss to her temple and let his lips brush against her ear.

“I love you, Lydia.”  He whispered, his breath ruffling the wisps of strawberry blonde hair in front of her ear. There was no response from the sleeping girl in his arms, but she nuzzled deeper into his arms, letting out a contented sigh, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. That was enough for Stiles.

He descended into sleep with a smile on his lips for the first time in months.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "Stay With Me" basically on repeat for the entire latter half of that chapter, and I think it reads really well to that song too. Maybe you caught the (not so) sneaky lyric that I threw in there.
> 
> I've been so excited to write this chapter ever since I planned it out around a month ago! I really hope you all liked it to, and I hope you'll let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, there might be slightly more than a week between this chapter and the next because Stydia Week is happening on tumblr next week, and I'm hoping to produce a few one-shots or shorter vignette style stories about our beloved, baseball-bat wielding duo. So keep your eyes open for more independent works by me in the coming weeks, and if you want to help a girl out, leave me prompts on my tumblr [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com), and I might write them for Stydia Week!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Fear is the Heart of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia's condition is deteriorating fast. Melissa offers Stiles some motherly advice. Kira and Scott hash out their relationship and Malia has made a discovery.

Stiles woke up to the sound of knocking on the bedroom door. For a moment, he lazily surveyed his surroundings. The muted, but elegant decor. The late afternoon sun streaming through gauzy white curtains. The soft churning of the AC as it streamed through the vents mounted on the wall.

He stopped dead when he realized that despite the air conditioning, he was hot. Not only was he hot, but he was sweating through his t-shirt. Glancing down into his lap, he balked at the copper head of hair resting peacefully on his chest. The memories of that morning came back to him, and he swallowed heavily, daring to press the back of his hand to the skin of her forehead. Her skin was on fire.

“Lydia,” he crooned softly into her ear, leaning forward a bit and propping her into a more upright position against his chest. She groaned in protest, remaining limp and hot and generally unmoving in his arms.

The door proceeded to creak open and a very concerned looking Melissa stuck her head into the room. A flicker of a smile crossed her features when she saw the way that the two were wrapped up together, but it disappeared just as quickly when she perceived the thin sheen of sweat coating both their faces despite the coolness of the room.

“Deaton’s here with me.” She said bluntly, as if giving a warning. Stiles bobbed his head in understanding and purposefully jostled Lydia in his arms a little.

“Lydia, wake up, Melissa’s back and Deaton’s with her.”

“Tell ‘em to go ‘way.” Lydia mumbled back without even opening her eyes. Stiles propped her up a little and slid out from behind her, a rush of coolness hitting him when he untangled himself from her fevered body. When he laid her back down, she cracked open her eyes to shoot him an angry scowl. A hand shot out and small, clammy fingers wound around his wrist.

“You’ve got to be awake so you can talk to Deaton.” Stiles reasoned with her. “I mean, assuming you aren’t incubating any telepathic powers over there. And if you are, tell me now so I can stop worrying about the fact that you seem to have turned into a furnace in the last few hours.” Even Stiles knew that his smile looked forced, and it didn’t seem to fool Lydia either. She groaned and rubbed at her eyes with balled fists.

“It’s either from coming off the drugs or it’s the banshee thing, and I don’t know which one.” She groaned, arching her back slightly and stretching in her newfound space.

“Based on the black veins starting to show in your eyes and mouth, I’d say that we’re dealing with the supernatural still.” Deaton announced, crossing the room without an invitation. Stiles scrambled off to the side so the emissary could get a closer look, but then repositioned himself at Lydia’s feet, crossing his legs and facing her with narrowed eyes.

“She looks normal to me,” Stiles said, a little surprised. “I don’t see any black-”

“You’re not looking for it properly. It’s not your fault, it’s just not what you’re trained to do.” Deaton said confidently.

“So what does that mean?” Stiles asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It means that her little stint this morning with Scott and Allison strengthened the tether between Allison and Lydia. And that’s not good news for Lydia.” Deaton cupped Lydia’s jaw and pulled out a penlight, shining it into her eyes and watching her pupils react.

“What can we do?” Stiles asked, gnawing on his thumbnail, eyes glued to the redhead in front of him.

“I have to sever Allison’s tether.” Lydia spoke up, her voice raspy and faint. Deaton didn’t respond immediately, but rather had Lydia open her mouth, shining his flashlight down her throat and over her gums.

“Well?” Stiles prompted Deaton, who was finishing his inspection by looking into her ears with the light. As Deaton drew away from her, Lydia laid back against the pillows on the bed looking absolutely exhausted, her eyes hooded and her entire body laying limp and still. There was a grey tint to her skin that Stiles hadn’t even noticed a minute before, but it was impossible to ignore now, it was draining the color from her face.

“She’s right.” Deaton said stiffly, clicking the penlight off and turning to address Stiles as much as Lydia. “But severing a tether that has endured through death isn’t an easy thing to do.”

“But I’m her tether again.” Stiles clarified. “I mean, I can be. We’re going to be closer again. Won’t that make it easy?”

“That just makes it possible. Your tether to her means that she has a chance to live. If you hadn’t held on to your connection, I think she would likely be dead already.” Deaton said directly, holding Stiles’ gaze, unwavering. Stiles felt a sinking despair wash over him. She would have died had they not mended the bond when they did. He glanced back down at Lydia. Her eyes were still open a crack, but she didn’t really seem to be watching or listening to the conversation being held in front of her.

“So how do we do it?” Stiles asked, rubbing a comforting hand across the blankets that covered the length of Lydia’s shin.

“It’s actually a very similar process to an exorcism.” Deaton said. Stiles fought back the horrors that cropped up in his mind when he thought of all the exorcism-related scary movies he had watched in his youth. “We have to banish Allison from Lydia’s mind.”

“I’m not going to forget about Allison.” Lydia croaked indignantly, eyes opening further so that she could properly glare at Deaton.

“That’s not what I mean. We just have to banish her living presence in your mind.” Deaton said. “Because your banshee abilities have successfully hoodwinked your brain into believing that Allison’s alive, even though you know that she’s dead. It’s causing a neural conflict that’s resulted in hallucinations, manifestations of Allison. These hallucinations are just your brain’s coping mechanisms. It’s trying to save you from the building conflict between what you know and what you wish was true.

“All this procedure will do is give a little shock to the banshee side of you. It’ll reestablish what’s real and what isn’t, and hopefully, if it does its job and you have a strong enough living anchor, you’ll be okay.” Both Lydia and Stiles met Deaton with blank expressions, hiding infinite levels of fear, doubt, and worry.

“How do we know that our tether is strong enough to withstand it?” Stiles asked. Deaton glanced back at forth between the two of them before sighing and focusing on Stiles.

“If you’re doubting the strength of the tether between you, it’s not strong enough yet. I hate to be cryptic about this sort of thing, but you will know when you’re both ready.” Deaton instructed softly. He paused, glancing at Lydia, who looked as if she was falling asleep again. “But if I were you, I would work on bolstering that connection as fast as I could. Even with you here, she’s still a time bomb.”

“Right.” Stiles said, chewing his lip, his eyes averted.

“I’ll plan on staying nearby.” Deaton announced, moving back towards the doorway where Melissa McCall had been standing in respectful silence. “Stay in touch, Stiles.” He bobbed his head towards Melissa who gave him a tight smile in return. Once Deaton was gone, Melissa approached the pair of them with her kit.

“It might not be as bad as you think,” she murmured, glancing at Stiles as she pulled her stethoscope up into place against Lydia’s chest. Stiles gave a humorless laugh.

“Right.” He said dryly. “She just _looks_ like she’s dying.” Melissa didn’t respond for a minute, instead focusing on the task at hand, listening intently to Lydia’s racing pulse. She then took out a thermometer and inserted the rounded, plastic end into Lydia’s ear until the monitor beeped, flashing her temperature on the display screen. _101._ Stiles saw the little number flash red, his heart dropping to his shoes.

“It could be the withdrawal.” Melissa explained softly, not meeting Stiles’ eye. “From what I understand, she’s only been on them for a short amount of time, but the dosages have been extremely high and extremely frequent. She’s gonna be okay, hon.” Stiles slipped his hand into Lydia’s and didn’t respond. 

* * *

 

Scott sat at the breakfast bar in Derek’s kitchen, eyeing Malia cautiously from across the room. She had been on edge since she entered about ten minutes earlier, crossing paths with the Sheriff, who regarded her with an awkward and apologetic hello. She had only gotten more agitated when Deaton reemerged from the downstairs apartment and gave them all an abridged update on Lydia’s condition before heading out into the hallway to make a call. Scott internally wondered how much of Malia’s demeanor had to do with Stiles.

He had been surprised when Malia’s anger became significantly more muted when Kira approached her with soft words and a reassuring squeeze around her shoulders. Their relationship had always been a strange one, and Scott was honestly surprised by its physical manifestation, but he wasn’t one to complain. Both Malia and Kira needed another girl in their life, another good friend.

Derek entering the room with a bowl of chips and guacamole seemed to be the catalyst to releasing Malia’s frustration.

“Hey, I got the Tostitos, I hope you don’t mind they’re Scoops-“

“Derek told me about Peter.” Malia blurted out, interrupting Derek’s unusually chipper entry. Derek’s shoulders sagged as he released an irritated sigh and put the snacks down, only to scrub a hand over his face. Malia stood with hands crossed over her chest, her expression daring them to try and explain this away. Scott looked between the werecoyote and her newly professed uncle with a wince.

“She deserved to know.” Derek justified, averting his gaze from Scott and scratching the back of his neck, his entire body language communicating submission. It was times like these that Scott felt awkward in his role as alpha.

“I… I agree.” Scott said uncomfortably. “I mean, she needs someone stable and constant in her life right now. And you’re… well you’re probably the most stable one out of all of us at this point.” Derek looked relieved by Scott’s easy understanding.

“Not that I’m not thrilled you’re on board with this, but I’m still pissed at you guys.” Malia snapped, looking between Kira and Scott, if only for lack of other people to blame. “I trusted you, and you were all lying to me.” Her eyes settled on Kira with this accusation, and the kitsune shrunk beside Scott.

“We’re sorry Malia.” Scott said sincerely. “We just wanted to keep you safe. We didn’t want you trying to communicate with him, he’s just bad news.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” She snorted. “But you should have told me. I deserve to know the truth about stuff like this. Especially when it has to do with my family.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kira murmured, her eyes rimmed with moisture. Malia softened a little at this, sighing.

“I know.” Malia replied stiffly. She looked back over to Derek, who was huddling by the untouched snacks, sulking. “I’m going to start staying with Derek now. Since he’s my real family.” Scott raised his eyebrows and looked to Derek as well, who looked uncomfortable under the room’s gaze.

“Uh, yeah,” he affirmed uncomfortably. “I figured I couldn’t just drop a bomb like that on her and then send her back to live with a guy who thought she was insane. Especially since he’s not her real family.

“That’s really kind of you, Derek.” Kira input. When he looked over to her with an incredulous expression, she blushed and looked back to the ground.

“Yeah, I appreciated the gesture.” Malia said, sincerity creeping into her tone. “He’s the only one of you I’m not angry at right now.” Her eyes narrowed at Scott, conveying the same sad message, _I trusted you_.

“You have every right to be angry, Malia. I just hope that we can start to regain your trust soon.” Scott said honestly, holding eye contact with Malia. She seemed to understand the gravity of his words and nodded abruptly before rounding on Derek.

“I thought we agreed on Restaurant Style with a Pinch of Lime. Not Scoops. It’s not that hard to remember.” She demanded. Derek rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, maybe I got it confused with the other ridiculously specific food orders you put on the grocery list.” He shot back.

“I’m allowed to have a good sense of taste, Derek. Not all of us can survive on ham sandwiches and tonic water.”

“It’s not club soda, it’s flavored seltzer and it tastes good!”

“If you refuse to shop at Whole Foods you could at least get the right items I requested.” Malia sniffed. Derek barked out a laugh.

“When you’re paying for the groceries you can choose to drop ten dollars on a box of waffles, until then you’ll have to deal with Eggos and tortilla chips that don’t have a _hint of lime_.“

Scott marveled at the ease with which they interacted. The family resemblance and wit was unmistakable, and he smiled in spite of himself. He turned to mention this to Kira, but found her picking at her fingernails, practically unaware of the scene unfolding in front of them. Scott nudged her with his hip.

“You okay?” He asked. Kira looked up sharply.

“Me? Yeah, totally, I’m totally fine.” She said, throwing him a half-assed smile.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Scott said, smiling warmly at her. She pulled an expression that bridged the gap between smile and wince and bobbed her head.

“Yeah, I’ve been told as much.”

“So what’s up?” He pursued. Kira gnawed on her lower lip for a moment before responding.

“I’ve been afraid that…” She paused before taking the plunge. “I’ve been afraid that I’m never going to be “Allison” enough for the pack.” _For you_. The words were unspoken, but crystal clear.

“Kira, you’re not Allison.” Scott said firmly. “But no one is asking you to be.”

“I… I know.” Kira mumbled. Scott scowled.

“Something’s telling me that you don’t really believe me.”

“No it’s not…” Kira took a deep breath to re-center herself. “I feel like since she died, I’m supposed to fill that gap. I feel like I should have been there for Lydia, I should have been there for you more too. And Malia hates me now for hiding the truth-“

"Kira!” Scott said, his voice hushed and gentle. He took her shoulders and forced her to look up at him, her expression apologetic and panicked. “Calm down, just look at me.” She took a couple of deep, calming breaths before bringing her gaze up to meet his.

“I never expected you to be like Allison. The only similarities I’ve ever seen in either of you is your kindness.” Scott’s thumbs ran reassuring patterns over Kira’s shoulders. “And do I miss her? Of course. We all do. We’re teenagers and we’re mourning the loss of one of our close friends. But no one expected you to put the weight of our grief on your shoulders.” He closed his eyes and he recalled the feeling of Allison’s hand in his, only hours before. It still stung to think of the warm familiarity, the way he had craved that contact, how much he had wanted to see her, to tell her he loved her-

But then he opened his eyes. And he saw the adoring gaze of Kira Yukimura staring back at him, filled with hope and compassion and love.

“You’re not Allison. And I loved Allison once. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you right now, Kira.” Scott said softly.

“I love you too, Scott.” Kira said, her eyes welling up slightly with emotion. “I just want you to be happy.” She flushed then, realizing that tears were forming, and she gave an awkward laugh, trying to play off the intensity of her feelings.

“I’m happy with you, Kira. I promise.” Scott replied, pulling her in against his chest. She was warm and folded into his touch instantly.

“I’m happy too.” 

* * *

 

After taking Lydia’s initial vitals, Melissa had slipped back out into the hallway to give the two kids some semblance of privacy. She knew that with whatever superpowers the pack had, the two humans were constantly being listened to and watched. It was the least she could do to leave the room for a while and let the two kids have some slight peace.

But after coming up on a couple of hours of waiting in the adjacent living room, Melissa was insistent on checking up on Lydia again. She knocked softly on the door before cracking it open and peeking her head in. The scene before her almost stopped her heart.

Lydia was asleep again, tucked under the comforters, but shivering. Stiles was in the armchair beside her bed, leaning over so that his forehead rested on the edge of the bed, one of his arms pillowed beneath his head, the other reaching out and holding Lydia’s hand. It was too familiar of a scene. She recalled the way that the Sheriff had looked, hunched over Claudia’s bed, sleep-deprived and miserable, as if that would save her life.

“Stiles.” Melissa called softly. He awoke with a jolt. His hair was stuck up at strange angles and his eyes were bleary. Melissa wondered how much sleep he had gotten since Lydia had been put away.

“Melissa, hi,” Stiles said, stifling a yawn. He didn’t release Lydia’s hand.

“I’m just checking in again, I want to look at her vitals.” Melissa explained softly.

“I think the fever’s getting worse.” Stiles confided as he stretched as best he could, his eyes never leaving Lydia’s sleeping form.

“I’ll see if it is.” Melissa reassured him, calmly. Only when she moved in to attend to Lydia did Stiles retract his hand from the bed. Melissa could feel his eyes on her as she worked, and when she spared him a glance, his expression was hollowed out, brittle, and lost.

“We just made up. We were finally going to be on good terms again.” Stiles said, his voice dry and choked. “I thought that was all I had to do. I thought that when _we_ got better, then she’d get better. She’s supposed to be okay.” His words broke her heart and Melissa moved a soothing hand to Stiles’ shoulder. Then, bracing herself, she removed her hand and turned back to Lydia.

“Stiles, how much do you remember of when you were small? When Scott and I would spend a lot of time with you and your parents?” Melissa asked, not looking away from her patient. Stiles shrugged.

“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.” Stiles admitted. “I don’t remember a whole lot from before when my Mom died.” Melissa nodded slowly.

“Your mother and I were best friends. And since before the two of you were born. We met at an open house for the Claremont McKenna Consortium accepted students day.” Melissa informed him. Stiles balked.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Mhmm.” Melissa affirmed. “We were best friends through college and even lived together before we each met your and Scott’s dads. And we each moved here after getting married, when we were both pregnant with you kids.” Stiles wondered how this information could be so new to him. How had he never known that Melissa had been his mother’s best friend? He wondered how much he had never known about his mom.

“When Rafe left, Claudia and I became even closer. She helped me out a lot with Scott, especially when money got tight.” Melissa continued. “And then I was there for your mom and dad when Claudia got sick.”

“I didn’t know that either.” Stiles muttered, his voice low.

“Sickness is a scary process, Stiles. Too often, there’s no knowing what’s going to come out of it. Like now. I can try to treat the symptoms, but I honestly don’t know what is happening with Lydia, and I don’t know if I can help her. But Stiles, you’ve got to make sure that you stay strong through this, alright? And tell her that you love her, Stiles, because you do. And because that’s the best thing you can do for her right now. You can give her everything, even though you’re scared of losing her. Because if you pull away to protect yourself… you’ll never be able to forgive yourself if something goes wrong.” Melissa’s grip on her thermometer was white knuckled, and her eyes were focused on something very far away. Stiles felt a lump rise in his throat as he realized that Melissa couldn’t be talking only about Lydia. Claudia was weighing heavy on her conscience.

“I’m not going to leave her.” Stiles asserted quietly, fingers tracing through the lank, dirty texture of Lydia’s hair. “I’m not leaving her ever again.”

“Good.” Melissa said, suddenly present again, her dark eyes flashing over to Stiles. The thermometer beeped shrilly in Melissa’s hand and both of them turned down to read what it had to report. _104._

“Oh,” Stiles breathed, his voice choked and thin. The numbers on the thermometer were continuing to flash, unlike the stagnant reading of 101 earlier that day. Stiles could only assume that was because the thermometer had decided that 104 was just _way too hot_.

Melissa stared aghast at the instrument in her hand, shoulders sagging downwards hopelessly.

“The fever shouldn’t be climbing so fast,” Melissa whispered, pressing the backs of her hands to Lydia’s forehead and under her jaw. “She’s practically hyperpyrexic. Stiles, this is flirting with medical emergency, she really needs to go to the hosp-“

“No!” Stiles cut her off sharply. “No hospitals, no doctors, no one is taking her away from me again!” Melissa noticed the glisten in his eye as he spoke and she awkwardly took a step back, clutching her bag against her chest.

“It’s probably just withdrawal,” Melissa said quietly. “I’ll get Deaton to come back and look at her, if you’ll stay.” She hesitated. “Call me if you need me, Stiles.” He gave a quick, curt nod in response.

“Thank you.” He said. He hoped that she understood the depth of his gratitude, even with the flat, dead tone to his voice. His eyes raked over Lydia’s prone, unconscious form, only vaguely aware of Melissa leaving the room.

When the bedroom door shut, Stiles clambered back onto the bed, laying close up against Lydia’s side. Her eyes flitted open briefly, and she looked drowsily at Stiles.

“How’re you feelin’, Lyds?” Stiles asked quietly, looking at her with hope.

“C-c-cold.” She croaked, looking up at him with a pleading expression, as if he had the power to fix it all. It made Stiles feel impossibly helpless.

“Want me to get back under the covers again?” Stiles asked. With chattering teeth, all Lydia could do was nod. Stiles slid obligingly under the covers and was surprised when Lydia turned her back into him, nuzzling up into his chest. He froze for a moment, so accustomed to being the little spoon with the taller and stronger Malia. But he recovered quickly, sliding one arm around her waist and tummy, trying not to feel repulsed by the stark, unpadded bone of her hips and ribs. His other arm snaked down and under the curve of her neck, wrapping around her neck and shoulders, pressing her shivering, sweating body into his own.

“Mmm, you’re warm,” Lydia whispered warmly, trying to snuggle further into his embrace. “Don’t ever leave.” Stiles absorbed the increasingly grey tone of her skin, the radiating heat of her skin, and the sluggish cadence of her words.

“Don’t worry,” he responded, nose pressing against the glaring vertebrae on the back of her neck. He repeated the words he swore to Melissa. “I’m not leaving you ever again.”

Lydia hummed her approval. Stile pressed his lips to the junction of her neck and spine, eyes squeezed shut to steel his nerves.

“And Lyds?”

“Hmm?” She was falling asleep again. His arms tightened around her.

“I love you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know, it has been months. For any of you who follow me on tumblr, you'll know that I had a concussion for about a month this past fall and then basically re-concussed myself only a few weeks after recovering from the initial injury. So it's been a hella rough fall for me. Regardless, I hope you all liked the chapter.
> 
> Comments are seriously what got me to put this chapter out after such a long hiatus. If y'all want to read more, I'd suggest leaving a note or something, as reviews are really what I'm out here writing for! Thanks again for reading!


	10. The Rubble or Our Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are still pieces to be put back together again, and Stiles can't do it all on his own. At the same time, Scott tries to come to peace with letting go of Allison once more.

His words were initially met by silence. Stiles wondered if he had professed his love to unconscious ears and a too-garbled mind like he had only hours before. Then Lydia made a slight groaning, whining noise and shifted painstakingly to look over at him.

“I love you too, Stiles. Obviously.” She said, her eyes shining in a way that Stiles hadn’t seen since before Allison’s death. Lydia almost looked properly alive again.

“Obviously.” Stiles echoed awkwardly, unable to reign in the grin spreading across his face. In response, she smirked at him for a moment before rolling back over onto her side and nestling back into the warmth of his arms. When he wrapped his arms around her frame again, she sighed deeply, drifting immediately back into sleep. Stiles allowed his eyes to succumb to the heavy pull of sleep as well, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time. But even as he did so, he pressed his lips to their familiar place at the back of Lydia’s neck, administering one last kiss, marking her as his own.

He didn’t awake for a long time, and when he did, the disorientation that followed kept him crossed eyed and groggy for several long minutes. Memory of his predicament came back little by little. The unfamiliar bedroom. The huge (and enormously comfortable) bed that was certainly not his. He flexed his legs and squinted at the sheets when he realized his limbs were tangled up with someone else’s. He rocked his head over to his side, glancing over at the head of strawberry blonde hair burrowing beneath the pillows. _Lydia_.

With that, Stiles shot up abruptly reaching for his phone on the nightstand and staring dumbfounded at the time. Only 7:15. They couldn’t have been asleep for more than two hours at that rate. Carefully, he disentangled himself from Lydia’s limbs, still heavy and limp as she slept on. It was only as he was sliding back into his sneakers that a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Mhmm?” Stiles offered quietly, eying Lydia’s peacefully sleeping form. Melissa slid silently through the door, offering Stiles a patronizing smile.

“Good morning, mister.” She whispered.

“Oh ha ha, yes, I fell asleep with Lydia let’s not start this now,” Stiles said, a little stiff and embarrassed beneath the humor in his tone. Melissa’s eyebrows drew together in some combination of surprise and condescension.

“Stiles, I was literally wishing you a good morning.” She said, maternal sweetness keeping her tone from being too teasing. Stiles still balked at her explanation.

“I’m sorry, what now?” He asked, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“You’ve been out since around five yesterday evening.” She said, raising an eyebrow. When he offered no immediate response, Melissa brushed past him towards the banshee still abed.

“Have you been back to check on her since?” Stiles finally spluttered.

“Stiles.” Melissa said sharply, giving him a stern look. “Of course I have. She was sick a couple of times early in the night, but I’m hoping her fever’s broken in the last couple of hours.”

“What do you mean that she’s been sick? I would have woken up for that,” Stiles reasoned, bringing a hand back to scratch uncomfortably at the back of his neck. Melissa slowed her working for half a moment, then didn’t respond. Stiles huffed at her indignantly, but before he could say another word, there was another pair of footsteps at the door.

“We collectively decided to sedate you when we came to check on her and you were both asleep.” Scott was at the door, recently showered and looking apologetic. “Dude, you needed it.”

“Lydia needs me right now, Scott. More than I need sleep.” Stiles said, his voice sharp. Scott didn’t wince the way that Stiles expected him to. Just raised an eyebrow and declined his head in a slight nod. Stiles turned back to Melissa. “Did her fever break?”

Melissa didn’t respond right away, her eyes trained on Lydia, who was groggily shifting around as her temperature was taken.

“101.” Melissa said, her voice still tense. “Not broken, but it’s down enough that I’m not worried about her temperature cooking her insides now.” Stiles recognized the attempt at humor, but couldn’t bring himself to smile.

“Does that mean the worst is over?” Scott asked kindly, coming to stand next to his mother.

“I don’t know, sweetie.” Melissa said quietly. “Only time will tell.”

“Yeah, well I say time can suck it.” Lydia was propping herself up on her elbows, and despite the pallor that lingered in her cheeks, she was looking more lucid than they had seen her. Stiles felt hope rise in his chest as Lydia met his eye and offered him a weak smirk. “Don’t think you can get rid of me that easily Stilinski.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Martin.” Stiles replied, matching her tone. Melissa gave the pair a pressed smile.

“I’ll leave you kids for now, but Deaton should be down here in an hour or so. Called me early this morning with some sort of plan of action. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it but it should mean something to you.” Melissa checked her watch. “But for now I actually need to go on call for a shift so I can be off for the next two days. It won’t be long and if you need me you can call-“

“I’ll be fine, Mrs. McCall.” Lydia reassured her in a slightly rasping voice. Her eyes were hooded but her stare was intense as she gave a small nod. Melissa seemed to take heart with that, and started off towards the door.

“You know how to reach me!” She punctuated, turning back with her hand on the knob.

“Thanks Mom, I’m sure we’ll be okay.” Scott said, smiling. The whole room knew Scott too well to believe the confidence he was trying to exude, but the whole room pretended to believe it for his sake.

Once Melissa was out the door, Stiles was already back at Lydia’s side in the bed, pulling her to lean against his side, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, and Scott flopped down across the foot of the bed. They both looked at Lydia expectantly, but she didn’t offer anything up readily.

“So… how have the banshee side effects been going?” Scott asked hesitantly. Lydia looked at him blankly.

“Allison’s fine. She’s here. But there were times overnight where she wasn’t. And that’s new.” Lydia said, cutting to the point of his question. Scott swallowed and ignored Stiles’ pointed look of warning.

“Has… has she said anything… about me?” Scott pressed, his voice timid as he looked down to pick at his fingernails.

“Scott, we can’t encourage that, talking to Allison is what triggered her episode yesterday.” Stiles said stiffly, his hand unconsciously tightening on Lydia’s upper arm, his thumb tracing circles over the fabric of her t-shirt. It gave him some sort of comfort, knowing she was back at his side even if she wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“She hasn’t though.” Lydia interjected. “She felt bad about the episode yesterday and didn’t want it to happen again.” Stiles side-eyed her and Scott stared more blatantly.

“So she’s still talking to you?” Scott clarified. Lydia bobbed her head in affirmation.

“Scott, drop it.” Stiles said a little more harshly this time. Scott looked at Stiles with hurt in his eyes, but he didn’t leave his spot on the bed.

“Sorry.” He muttered. He focused back on Lydia. “What else can you tell us about what happened?”

“I don’t know…” Lydia said slowly. “I mean, I told Stiles about it, sort of. I’m tethered to Allison, and staying connected to her and not severing the bond in my head, I’m getting closer to crossing over…” Her cheeks flushed dramatically in blotchy patches of scarlet, making her look fevered. Stiles could feel the spike in her pulse and brought his hand up from where it was wrapped around her shoulders to comb through her hair, stroking the side of her neck. Her skin was sticky with sweat, but she was still shivering slightly.

Scott seemed to notice her increased discomfort, because he wriggled halfway up the bed and held out his hand to her.

“Let me take it for a little while,” he urged her. Lydia looked confused for a moment, then taken aback.

“I can’t let you.” She said. Stiles was shocked by the look of embarrassment on her face.

“Yes you can.” Stiles and Scott retorted in one voice. They looked at each other, both a little exasperated. Stiles relented and let Scott finish.

“Deaton told me about the tethers.” Scott said, his voice gentle again. His true alpha voice, when it came to speaking to his pack. “And Lydia, I feel terrible that you didn’t feel like you could come to me.”

“Scott-“ Lydia started to apologize, but Scott held his hand up and cut her short.

“I never wanted to just be your best friend’s boyfriend. We were friends, Lyds, and I really neglected our friendship after Allison died. I was wrapped up in my own pain and I was thoughtless when it came to supporting others. I’m sorry.” Scott said seriously. Lydia considered this with wide eyes and a creased brow before nodding.

“It’s okay, Scott.” Lydia said. She didn’t try to apologize in return, and Stiles recognized it as progress, despite the lump it put in his throat. It was about time Lydia acknowledge it wasn’t her fault. Stiles wondered if this progress was part of her healing. He hoped so.

“Can I please take your pain for a few minutes?” Scott tried again, reaching out his hand from where he lay, belly down on the bed beside Lydia’s legs. Lydia hesitated and Stiles’ hand stilled against her neck. After what felt like ages, she relented and reached out, taking his hand.

Only seconds later, Scott’s eyes were screwed up as spidery black veins crept mercilessly across his skin, Lydia’s pain now flowing through his veins.

“Jesus,” Scott said, his voice raw. He looked up at Lydia with an expression that crossed admiration with pain. Lydia must have only seen the pain, because she made to pull her hand back. Scott’s eyes widened momentarily, but he just held her hand tighter.

“Scott, stop,” Lydia said, her cheeks alight with shame.

“I’ve got it, Lyds.” Scott said, trying but failing to eliminate the tension in his voice. “I’ve got you.” Stiles felt a rush of pride in his friend. His brother. He could have sworn that a smile touched Lydia’s lips, but within the next minute or two, Lydia sagged back asleep against Stiles’ chest. The tension was truly gone from her limbs and core, and her thinness suddenly felt much less brittle.

Once they were sure that she was fully asleep, Stiles clicked his tongue to get Scott’s attention.

“You can let go. She’ll be okay in her sleep.” He wish that he was as confident as he sounded about that proposition.

“I’ve got her for another minute.” Scott said quietly. His eyes were focused on something across the room. Stiles followed his eye line but found nothing on the other end. He stopped for a beat, then looked back to Scott.

“You can see her, can’t you?” He asked gently. Scott paused for a moment, then nodded.

“She’s telling me… she’s saying…” Tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes. Stiles looked from Scott to Lydia and back to Scott again. If Lydia’s pain had nearly driven him crazy, he wondered what Lydia’s death could have done. He stared intently at Scott. He wondered if he could have continued to live and love the way that Scott had. As he felt Lydia’s breath breeze over his chest, he realized that at some point in his life, maybe he might have been able to move on. But he couldn’t now. And he never would be able to again.

* * *

Lydia didn’t really have a proper grip on how the time was passing. She slept too often. She didn’t have her medications anymore. She didn’t have scheduled meals either, just random bits and pieces of food that were regurgitated within minutes of passing through her lips. She had Stiles, though.

He was there _relentlessly_. And there were times, she could hardly believe it, where she wished he wasn’t there. When she was throwing up, she could see the pain on his face, and she wished that for once he’d turn away. She knew that emotional instability was a side effect of her withdrawal, but the sweats and tremors were distracting, and Stiles would never shut up about them being banshee related.

Lydia had learned that she could usually shut him up about “side effects” by mentioning the tics that hadn’t gone away following her withdrawal from the medications: the twitch of her right eye and the way her hands would spasm at random when they were resting in her lap or laced up in Stiles’ grasp. Her hands would jerk back from wherever they were resting, as if she’d been stung, despite the lack of sensation. Every time one of her tics would surface, Stiles’ face would draw back into a tight, pale mask, his lips pressed tight together and his eyes glued on her face, but somehow not really looking at her at all. The sympathy was embarrassing.

She understood his concern, she really did. Maybe she was just too callous to it now. The whole “suffering” thing. Melissa was the only one who didn’t regard her as if she was going to shatter at any second. Well, her and Malia.

The werecoyote came down once to see her. Stiles had been out of the bed and in the side armchair, thankfully. He had told Lydia about how they ended things, and Lydia couldn’t bring herself to put a heavier burden on Malia’s heart so soon after the breakup. Maybe Lydia was feeling charitable because she knew the brown-eyed boy in the recliner belonged to her and no one else. Maybe it was Allison’s kindness rubbing off on her again.

“Hey.” Malia said awkwardly as she slid through the door. Kira was lurking behind her and gave Lydia a bob of the head and a small wave as a greeting.

“Hey, Malia.” Lydia said, trying to put on her strongest voice.

“So when’s this whole thing going to go away?” Malia asked tersely. Kira made a noise that sounded like he was choking on his own spit. Stiles just looked at Malia as if she’d thrown a brick in Lydia’s direction and yelled “catch!” But Lydia just froze for a beat before chuckling to herself.

“I don’t know. I think we were hoping it was going to kind of go out quietly on its own without me needing to do anything crazy or drastic, but it’s probably going to come down to that.” Lydia said candidly as she noted the buzzing pain behind her eyes and the twisted, shriveled feeling in her stomach. Stiles watched the exchange warily, letting his indignant expression die down a little, to Lydia’s relief.

“Scott said you’re in a lot of pain.” Malia said, squinting a little at Lydia.

“I am.” Lydia replied as evenly as she could. Malia considered this in the dead silence of the room.

“I’m sorry that you are.” Malia answered, a little stiffly. “Eichen house sucks ass.”

“On a level I never would have believed if I hadn’t stayed there.” Lydia quipped back. Malia’s expression quirked into a sharp smile of approval.

“Did you meet Brunski?” Malia shot back again, a knowing smirk on her face. Lydia groaned, trying to keep the memory of his grabby hands as light as possible.

“The pervert doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

“Right?” The two exchanged equally bewildered expressions across the seemingly huge space between them. There was an understanding between them now, where previously there had been little-to-no common ground at all. Kira was watching the exchange with perpetually raised eyebrows and Stiles’ expression was entirely blank. Maybe he was still stuck on the idea of Brunski getting handsy with both of the girls he’d really cared about, but maybe he was too shocked to follow the conversation anymore since it wasn’t a petty argument like almost all of their previous conversations.

Malia looked at the ground hesitantly, then back at Kira, then at Lydia again.

“I’m not mad at you for the way Stiles feels about you.” Malia practically chanted the words. Lydia looked up at her with blank surprise. Even with the positive progression of their current conversation, she couldn’t have anticipated that.

“Oh.” Lydia coughed out. “I’m glad.” Malia nodded her head briefly again, not sparing as much as a glance in Stiles’ direction.

“Me too.” Malia said. “Kira’s teaching me how important it is for girls to stay close to each other and protect each other, even within a pack.”

“I like that.” Lydia responded amiably. “I’m in.”

“Well it’s not like you can protect us now, you’re stuck in bed.” Malia started. Kira made a coughing noise and when Malia looked back at her, Kira’s expression was laced with disapproval. Malia gave a short huff before turning back to Lydia. “We’re going to be friends. That what Kira wanted me to say. And that I’ve got your back. And that I’m sorry that this started with Allison dying. I wish I had known her, she seemed… good.”

Her words were so stilted at first that Lydia almost missed her honest and kind admission. The banshee in the bed scrutinized the werecoyote in front of her. She hoped that Malia was going to be her friend. There was a ruthlessness to the girl, but it was so protective and undermined with love, Lydia couldn’t help but want that sort of fierce loyalty on her side. She felt so empty without Allison. She hadn’t seen or heard Allison in a couple of days now (or at least, she thought it had been days).

For the first time in weeks, it really felt like Allison was gone.

And despite being surrounded by her friends for the first time in months, Lydia felt very much alone.       

* * *

 

Stiles’ eyes were drooping as he lay flat on his back atop the comforters, fingers tangled up in Lydia’s. Almost a week had passed since they’d sprung her from Eichen House and despite the tics and spotty illness that had continued to plague her, she had been improving in leaps and bounds. She hadn’t really gained any weight back yet and her appetite was still nonexistent, so as Stiles ran his hand around her wrist, he tried thinking back to when Scott had been a gangly, bony middle schooler who couldn’t keep on weight. He tried to remember what that thing was that Melissa had given him to help him reach a normal weight, but for the life of him, Stiles couldn’t remember what it was called.

“Stiles,” Lydia started. Her voice had gotten a lot stronger over the past week and now Stiles could recognize her tone as one of knowing condescension. “When was the last time you had a shower or saw your dad?” The question caught Stiles by surprise and he instinctively went into the defensive.

“I don’t know. I mean, it hasn’t been that long.” He said, craning his neck so he could look back up to the head of the bed where Lydia was sitting herself up. She shot him a look down her nose and he rolled his eyes.

“You need to think about something other than me… or us… for a little while.” She asserted. Stiles rolled over onto his stomach and then pushed himself up into a seated position facing her.

“What do you mean?” He asked quickly. Lydia gave him a reassuring smile.

“I mean that I want to take a shower and maybe spend a little time not in bed anymore and so maybe you should go… refresh yourself too.” She picked her words delicately, but Stiles could feel the good intention and the cautious optimism behind them.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay? It gets worse when I’m not here.” Stiles reminded her seriously, suppressing a shudder as he remembered the first time he visited her at Eichen.

“Shockingly, I’ve committed that fact to memory.” Her voice was teasing but Stiles knew the weight that was still hanging in her throat. She had started to do this as she’d gotten better. Making light of her time in Eichen. Despite all their time together, Stiles was sure he hadn’t gotten the full story from her yet. She hadn’t seen fit to tell him much beyond the discussions she’d had with Meredith. Her time in the closed ward, the effects of the drugs, and the abuse from Brunski were all off limits in Lydia’s book. Stiles understood to some degree. It hurt that she wouldn’t tell him, but he understood the shame that stemmed from abuse and from illness. He didn’t want to cause her any more pain.

“Okay, yeah, sure. I’ll go back to my place and take a shower, get some new clothes, have…” He checked his phone for the time. “... _lunch_ with my dad and then I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” This schedule seemed to satisfy Lydia, and she nodded her consent.

“That sounds good. Will you let the others know what’s going on? I’d hate to slip and fall in the bathroom and have to wait for hours for you to come back and pull me out.” Stiles looked at her imploringly, and she choked out a small laugh. “Relax, Stilinski.”

“Then don’t make stupid jokes,” Stiles shot back. In that moment, he got the funniest feeling that maybe they had turned this whole conversation around backwards from the way that it used to go. Maybe Lydia felt that way too, because she bit down on her lower lip and looked at him in this funny way. He felt intensely scrutinized by those deep green eyes, but in a good way, like the way you squint up at the stars and find old, familiar constellations.

Unable to really resist it, he leaned in and wrapped a tight hug around her, and she squeezed him back with more life and strength than he’d felt in a long time.

“It’s only a couple of hours,” Lydia promised him. To Stiles’ ears, it sounded more like a reassurance to herself. He planted a kiss in her hair when she exhaled and the breath rattled out of her as if her throat was constricting shut. She had steeled her expression by the time they pulled out of the embrace, but Stiles brushed a hand across her hairline to comfort her all the same. The smile on her face was forced, but Stiles knew that they had to do this, to test whether or not their bond was strong enough.

“Just a couple of hours.” Stiles echoed her, and her lips twitched.

“Right.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“I’ll see you soon. If you need me, call me.” He reassured her, slowly sliding to the side of the bed, eyes locked intently on her all the while.

“Back at you,” Lydia joked weakly. There was fear in her eyes, but Stiles knew that she had never lacked in courage.

“Love you,” Stiles said seriously as he reached the door. She nodded, her voice seemingly lost. He knew though. So he slipped out the door and left.

Immediately, there was a distinct coldness that passed through his body with all the strength of an alpine wind. He almost turned around right there to go back into that room, but instead he just increased his pace as he made for the stairwell. He texted Melissa while he was on his way down the stairs, passing along the message that Lydia was going to be alone for a little and she was going to shower and listen for her in case she falls and take care of her and I’ll be right back.

He sat in the driver’s seat of his jeep for nearly four minutes, leg bouncing in a nervous twitch until his phone buzzed with the response from Mrs. McCall.

_Sure thing, sweetie. Take your time, we’ll be fine here._

It still took him two more minutes to turn on the engine and drive away.

* * *

 

When he was out of the room, Lydia let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She wished she could know if any of the werewolves were in the loft above her, but that was just something she’d have to live with not knowing. As she slipped out of bed, a chill passed through her and she couldn’t help but shudder. Appropriating it to the warmth of the bed, she grabbed a towel from the bureau and took her phone from the bedside table. It had been returned to her possession when she arrived to the Hale Loft and she hadn’t really used it since, but she was intent on not falling in the tub and being found naked by _anyone_.

A breath of sound breezed past her ear, and Lydia turned abruptly.

“Allison?” She whispered. She didn’t want any of the pack upstairs to hear and worry. In truth, Allison was why she sent Stiles home. Well, it was the main reason. She wanted to see her one more time. She needed to see her.

There was no response to her plea, and she deflated slightly, chastising herself for being so hopeful. Seeing Allison was wrong, unhealthy even. Dejected, she slipped out of her clothes into the shower.

She made the water run as hot as it would go, and relished in the burning sensation that prickled across her skin. She hadn’t really washed thoroughly since being in Eichen House, and washing a month’s grime out of her hair was no small challenge. She shampooed three times and exfoliated her entire body with a loofa twice, watching dispassionately as rough scales of grey, dead skin were rinsed away. They hadn’t appropriated her a razor for obvious reasons, but she contented herself with simply relaxing under the constant pounding of the water. Her muscles were constantly aching from atrophy and disuse, and her body didn’t look even remotely like she remembered. If only that didn’t bother her so much.

She remained under the steady stream of the shower, allowing the heavy floral scents and building steam to envelop her, trying to clear her head. She was going to be fine. It was all going to be over soon.

“ _Stop_.” The word was like a hiss, but it cut through Lydia’s consciousness like a knife. Immediately she switched off the water, grabbing her towel and pulling the shower curtain to the side.

“Allison?” She squeaked. There was no immediate response, but Lydia scrambled out of the tub anyways, wrapping the oversized bath towel around her shoulders like a cape. “I know you’re here somewhere.” Again, there was no immediate response. Lydia was undeterred.

She took the clean underclothes she had brought into the bathroom with her, trying to ignore the looseness with which they fit. She then slid into a loose cotton shift dress. It was powder blue and felt as soft as pajamas, but she had hoped that maybe wearing a dress again would make her feel a little more like herself.

“... go away.” The voice was closer now, more solid and more familiar. It was coming from her bedroom.

“I’m here, Allison.” Lydia said a little more loudly, following the voice. “I’m coming.” Her hair was wetting the entire back of her dress but Lydia didn’t really notice it. She was so sure that she could see her again. Lydia walked farther into the room, spinning around and trying to find the source of the voice.

“You shouldn’t be.” The voice was deadly and just over her shoulder. Lydia spun around but just as she caught a glimpse of Allison’s face, she found herself being slammed up against a wall. The air vacated her lungs in a quiet _whoosh_ as her back hit the wall, her head whipping backwards and clunking against the hard surface.

“What are you doing?” Lydia managed to choke out as she sucked in a heavy breath.

“Where is she?” Allison snarled, pressing her forearm into Lydia’s throat.

“Where is who?” Lydia coughed. Allison pushed her hard and took a couple of steps back, pulling out her Chinese ring daggers.

“Where is _Lydia_?” Allison barked. She threw one of the daggers and it sliced her cheek from beneath her eye back across the cartilage of her ear. Lydia let out a pitiful cry as she heard the knife hit the wall behind her with a resounding thunk. She wondered if she could die like this.

“Allison, it’s me, it’s Lydia, please!” Lydia heard her voice raise in pitch and volume in spite of her best intentions. Almost as if on cue, she heard footsteps pounding from the floor above her. Allison didn’t notice.

“You can’t trick me! The nogitsune is pretending to be Stiles, you don’t even look like Lydia. You follow the nogitsune’s orders and you took my best friend!” Allison bore down on Lydia again and this time held the second dagger to her throat. “You can’t take her from me again.” Allison said, her voice now shaking. Tears were pricking in her eyes and Lydia saw the fear plainly on Allison’s face. She looked so lost. She didn’t know what was happening. But Lydia knew. Allison was starting to slip towards the other side.

“I love you, Allison.” Lydia said quietly. A tug in her stomach made her feel physically sick.

“Lydie? I can’t do it.” Her voice was just a whisper, but before Lydia could say anything in response, Kira and Scott came running through the door, eyes wide. The second that they were in Lydia’s line of sight, Allison disappeared. When Lydia shifted her head, there was no ring dagger buried in the wall beside her. But the hot sting of the dagger’s edge still lingered on her cheek.

“Lydia, you’re bleeding.” Kira said, shocked. Lydia pulled a hand up to her cheek and felt the warm wetness of blood seeping from an open cut. Her head was spinning and her vision began to tunnel. With a jolt of horror rocking through her stomach, Lydia realized that Allison was unintentionally pulled her along. She was getting dragged to the other side.

“Get Deaton.” Lydia gasped, her entire frame still shaking. She was leaning against the wall of the room, staggering back into the corner until her back hit the perpendicular wall and she let herself slide to the floor. She didn’t know whether her tremors were from her physical deterioration or from fear, but her dignity was already too degraded for it to really matter anymore. “And get Stiles. I’m going to need him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm... Jeez, I don't know what to say except that this fic is a hell of a lot easier to write when Teen Wolf is in season. I've really appreciated all the kind words that were left after my previous chapter, and I hope I can continue to produce stuff that you all really like as I finish off the last two chapters of this story. And then it'll be time to create a new one :)
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com) if you want, and please be sure to leave your thoughts and feelings about the chapter! Thank you for reading, and I'm glad to be back!


	11. I'll Tell You All About It When I See You Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia is facing her breaking point, and in order to survive, she needs to cut her tether with Allison. But can she really say goodbye to her best friend again?

When he arrived home, he found a note from his dad.

_Melissa told me that you were coming back for lunch, so I’m getting us some In-N’-Out. I should be back by the time you’re out of the shower._

Stiles smiled at the note briefly before blowing back upstairs to take a quick shower. He had to admit that while Derek’s apartments had been clean, new, and well-furnished, there was a certain feeling of comfort that he could only get by showering at home. The shampoo and soap were his, the towel was the one he’d been using for almost three years, and he didn’t feel guilty about dripping water on the floor when he stepped out of the tub. It was incredibly relaxing, and he knew that the time had gotten away from him when the water started to run cold.

He sheepishly turned off the shower and wrapped the towel around his waist as he moved back to his room to get dressed. He picked out a maroon thermal shirt and some jeans and he relished in the scent of his own deodorant and laundry detergent. Lydia was Lydia, but home was home.

By the time he made it downstairs, his dad had their burgers and fries out on plates and was squirting a healthy dollop of ketchup onto one of the plates next to the fries.

“How’s it going, Stiles?” His attempt at casual conversation was admirable, and Stiles really did appreciate it. But he knew that walking on eggshells wasn’t going to help him get back to Lydia any faster.

“She’s doing much better than last week. I mean, since the last time you saw her, even.” Stiles said. “She’s lucid, she was the one who sent me here to shower and see you so I think she’s going to be okay.” Sheriff Stilinski looked at Stiles with a weirdly understanding smile. It wasn’t fatherly empathy. His expression would have looked more fitting on Scott’s face.

“And how are you holding up?” The sheriff asked. Stiles shrugged.

“I’m clean now.” The sheriff gave him a pained look. “And… I don’t know, I’m sleeping better now that I know she’s out of Eichen. That place is just so screwed up.” Stiles said, barely suppressing the shudder that flowed through him at the thought of the institution.

“Melissa said you’re sleeping in the bed with Lydia.” The sheriff mentioned, sliding into a chair and beginning to eat. Stiles’ mouth opened and closed a couple of times without a single sound passing through his lips, and he eventually sat down across from his father, eyes glued to the man’s passive expression.

“I’m not taking advantage of her, Dad.” He finally managed to squeak out as he unwrapped his burger.

“I never thought you were, Stiles, jeez. You’ve been dreaming of marrying her since before you knew where babies came from.” Sheriff Stilinski snorted as he tore into his cheeseburger. Stiles chewed slowly with a somewhat irritated look on his face.

“So what then? You know I wouldn’t do anything to her while she’s vulnerable, so why bring it up?” Stiles finally asked. His father mirrored his expression from a moment earlier as he slowly masticated the mouthful of fast food. When he swallowed, he didn’t speak right away, but instead wiped around his mouth with a napkin, clearly trying to find the words to say.

“You and Malia are over. And now you’re spending the nights sleeping next to the girl of your dreams.” The sheriff hesitated over the next few words. “Are you together now? You and Lydia?” Stiles froze in place, the hamburger still in his hand a few inches from his face, his gaze glued to the white ceramic plate in front of him. He loved her. And she finally loved him back. But did that make them an item automatically? He felt like it didn’t.

“We’re not together…” He started carefully. “But we’re _something_.” His own words immediately rung back in his mind and a small but clear echo came back through.

_I’m not a psychic._

_You’re something!_

“What might that something be, Stiles? Because there’s no way in hell that girl’s just your friend anymore.” The sheriff pushed.

“Best friend.” Stiles corrected.

“What?”

“Like Scott. She’s my best friend.” Stiles asserted. “And yeah, that something probably isn’t just going to end up with us walking away platonically and seeing other people anymore. But she’s hurt right now, Dad. She’s sick and she needs me to just be this _something_ for her right now, and we’ll get to the rest of it later and we know we’ll get to it later.” He shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. “It just feels like we have to go one step at a time and healing is the most important thing now.”

When he finally got the courage to meet his father’s gaze, he was surprised by the wet gleam that frosted the lower rims of the sheriff’s eyes. He put down his food and looked at his father with concern.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, trying not to use the too-soft and too-gentle voice he had used with Lydia when she had been at her worst. His dad afforded him a gentle smile and pushed his plate away as he continued to struggle with his words.

“It’s just… I’m proud of you, Stiles. I really, really am.” The profession came unexpected, and it caught Stiles by surprise.

“Thanks, Dad.” He said, allowing the softness and mutually assured vulnerability settle into his tone. “I never was able to appreciate just how hard it was for you… with Mom…” They didn’t talk about it much, but Stiles knew how heavily it weighed on his father, even after all this time.

“I know. And I never wanted this to be a burden that you had to bear alongside me. So you get Lydia healthy and then you take her out on all of those crazy dates you have planned. Alright?” Sheriff Stilinski spoke now with a sense of purpose and urgency, and Stiles nodded with equal seriousness.

“Got it. Healthy Lydia, then minigolf.” Stiles said, allowing himself to crack a slight smile. His father’s eyes widened, and then rolled in exasperation.

“Do not tell me you’ve been mooning over this girl for almost a decade and the first date you have planned is miniature golf.” Sheriff Stilinski said with a pained expression.

“Oh it’s not. But I can’t have you and Melissa stealing my awesome first date ideas.” Stiles said smoothly, swirling a fry through the puddle of ketchup on his plate. His father reacted just as he had hoped, spluttering out denials and excuses. However, Stiles’ enjoyment of the moment was cut short by his phone ringing loudly in his pocket. His father stopped talking and they both stared at each other with wide eyes. Stiles fumbled for the phone, seeing Scott’s name on the front and trying to reassure himself that this was going to be good news.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Stiles asked, trying to sound relaxed. His father was watching him intensely.

“We need you to come back over right now.” Scott said tersely.

“What happened?” Stiles said, standing abruptly and reaching for his keys.

“We don’t really know, but Deaton’s on his way too.”

“Is it bad?” The sheriff rose at Stiles’ question, eyes locked on his son. Stiles refused to meet his eye.

“We can’t tell yet.” Scott’s voice was small and apologetic over the phone.

“Fuck.”

“It’s going to be fine, Stiles-“

“I’ll be there in a minute, don’t leave her alone.” Stiles said, his voice hard and cold. He hung up the phone without another word. He turned to his dad to explain and apologize, but the sheriff was already waving him towards the door.

“Like we talked about,” he said. Stiles bobbed his head and ducked in, giving his father a quick, tight hug.

“Thanks, Dad.” Stiles mumbled. His father hugged him back, tightly, clapping him on the back and then releasing him.

“Go on, Stiles, I’ll be by after work. Send me updates.” The sheriff requested. Stiles nodded, and then slipped out the door.

* * *

Stiles made it to Derek’s apartments in record time. He almost broke a finger trying to yank the keys out of the ignition before it was even fully turned off when he arrived, and after waiting almost thirty seconds for the elevator to reach the ground floor, he decided against it and started running up the stairs until he reached her floor, out of breath. Stiles burst through the front door, and then the door to Lydia’s bedroom, which was left slightly ajar.

“Stiles!” Scott noticed him first, although they had all likely heard him coming. Scott, Derek, Kira, Malia, and Melissa were there, all scattered throughout the room, but only Scott and Melissa really daring to stay close to the strawberry blonde in the bed. Stiles slowed as he approached the bed, then his eyebrows furrowed, furiously as he realized that Melissa was administering stitches to Lydia’s cheek.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, his voice coming out as more of a moan than he had intended. Scott looked to Kira and then they both looked back to Stiles.

“We were letting her have her space and just monitoring her by sound from upstairs,” Scott started. “Since she seemed like she was doing alright. But then we heard her say “Allison” more than once. We didn’t know what was going on until she shouted it. She said something like, “Allison, it’s me, Lydia” but she sounded really, really scared. So we came running down here.” Scott explained, his voice smooth and controlled but still fiercely apologetic.

“What happened to her face though? We didn’t give her anything sharp enough to cut herself,” Stiles said, his throat constricting slightly at the thought that Lydia might have done this to herself.

“We have no idea, Stiles.” Kira spoke up, her eyes wide and her expression lost.

“We combed over the room, we should have been able to pick up the scent if she had hid something or thrown away something with her blood on it, but we’ve got nothing.” Scott continued. “It’s like whatever cut her disappeared right afterwards.” Stiles scrubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling miserably weary again. As Melissa finished putting the bandage over Lydia’s stitches, Stiles slid past Scott and took a seat on the side of the bed, his hip pressing into her thigh through the sheets.

“Lydia, talk to me, what’s going on?” He asked, trying to project the appearance of calmness.

“She hasn’t said anything since she asked for you,” Derek stated bluntly, a hint of bitter hopelessness in his tone. Stiles ignored him, staring intently into Lydia’s eyes. They were glassy and somewhat distant, and Stiles could have sworn he saw cloudiness over her pupils. Her eyebrows drew together momentarily as she struggled to process the question.

“Allison’s scared. She’s confused. She’s making her final pull for me. She cut me because she didn’t recognize me.” Lydia said, her voice low. Her syllables were slow and cumbersome, and she was radiating fear so potent that Stiles could practically smell it himself. He wondered how it felt to all of the werewolves in the room.

“Okay, okay, that’s okay Lydia, we’re ready for this, we’ve been waiting for this, right?” Stiles answered. It was true enough. They’d all known it was going to come to a head at some point. Lydia closed her eyes drowsily and sighed, swaying slightly.

“She’s going to try to pull me under,” Lydia said, her speech becoming even slower and more labored and her breaths starting to sound more panicked and desperate. “I’m fighting it, I really am.” The words resonated through Stiles, and he remembered the feeling of his earliest panic attacks, how they suffocated him and left him feeling empty and exhausted. He wished so badly that he could kiss her, but with every member of the pack in the room, it didn’t seem realistic. They could all feel everything, they could all see everything, and it wasn’t the right time. Luckily, Melissa McCall was more medically knowledgeable than either he or Lydia, and she started the process of calming her down, and he could soothe his own anxiety by gripping her hand tight. He could feel her pulse racing, and it felt like it was in perfect time with his own.

By the time Deaton arrived in the apartment, Lydia had calmed somewhat. She insisted on sitting up unsupported next to Stiles on the edge of the bed, and they had interlocked their fingers in a vise-like grip between them. It was all the support she wanted. He wasn’t going to fight her pride on this.

“I see we’ve reached that critical point,” Deaton said briskly, slipping up to the front of the room. Lydia forced her eyes open with some effort and when she did, Stiles gave a sharp yell of surprise. In place of the thin pink veins that usually cropped up in the corners of her eyes, there were thicker, black veins that encroached heavily on the whites of her eyes.

“Holy shit,” a reverent whisper came from somewhere in the back of the room. Stiles would have put money on it coming from Malia. Melissa had stepped back away from Lydia and was eying her with a combination of fear and well-masked repulsion.

“What happened to her eyes?” Scott asked. Deaton glanced back at him as he took out his penlight.

“You’ve seen veins like this before, Scott.” Deaton hinted. Scott paused for a moment, before looking between all the members of his pack, and then back to the emissary.

“She can’t be taking someone’s pain away. She’s only touching Stiles, and he’s not hurt.” Scott said abruptly, almost argumentatively.

“Banshees are incredibly empathetic creatures,” Deaton said distantly as he examined her eyes with care. “They don’t deal in the physical world as much as they do in the mental, emotional world. Or the spiritual world.” Stiles watched as Deaton worked, but began to notice the darkening of the veins across Lydia’s fair skin as they turned from blue to black. He refocused his eyes on their intertwined hands, and watched as the fingers interlaced between his own became dull and gray.

“So she’s taking Stiles’s emotional pain?” Kira asked. Stiles looked up, almost surprised about having his name mentioned at all. Deaton turned to look at Stiles, and almost immediately shook her head.

“She’s latching on stronger to Stiles. He’s going to be her overflow backup system in case she absorbs too much, but the pain isn’t coming from him.”

“Then who’s it coming from?” Derek asked roughly. Stiles looked over at Lydia’s blank expression and darkening eyes. Though the colors were all wrong, the expression she wore was vaguely familiar. She was thinking. Before these problems ever fell on their pack, before Allison died, Lydia would adopt that blank expression when she retreated within herself. She wasn’t even fully present in their conversation. the emotional and mental turmoil was coming from within. She was taking it from someone who wasn’t even in the room.

“It’s coming from Allison.” Stiles said quietly. Deaton touched a finger to the side of his nose, acknowledging the guess to be correct.

“How the hell could it be coming from Allison? She’s not alive anymore, she doesn’t have any pain to take!” Scott shot back, almost angrily.

“Lydia is connected to more than one plane of existence, and so if Allison is dead and she is experiencing mental or emotional turmoil in whatever form she now inhabits, then Lydia can access it, and Lydia can take it.” Deaton explained firmly. “She might not even be aware that she’s doing it. She probably is feeling Allison’s emotions as secondary emotions of her own. They’re sharing fear, sadness, loss… A lot of emotions.” Stiles squeezed Lydia’s hand a little harder, leaning in so that his arm was pressed up against his. He was warm in his thermal, but saw goosebumps prickle the skin of her arm when they made contact. Whether it was the contact or the blaring air conditioner that caused her to shiver, Stiles didn’t know.

“So she has to cut herself off from Allison… officially sever the tether?” Scott asked, this time less confrontational.

“That’s the gist of it, yes.” Deaton answered with some hesitation. Derek cleared his throat and moved towards the door, attracting the attention of the pack.

“I might be able to help with more of the specifics regarding that,” he said uncomfortably. He opened the door and a young man with medium brown skin and warm, whiskey-colored eyes stepped through. Stiles didn’t recognize him immediately when he wasn’t in his scrubs, but Scott did.

“You’re the one from Eichen house.” Scott said. Stiles could sense the alpha’s hackles rising protectively. “What are you?” Derek snorted at this, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re losing your charm in these dark times, Scott. I believe you meant to ask my friend who he was first.” Scott flushed, but didn’t let down his guard. He looked more uncomfortable than anything. The newcomer didn’t seem put off by this.

“I’m Damji Mustafa, I did my best to protect Lydia in Eichen house.” There were quiet murmurs running throughout the group. Damji didn’t seem uncomfortable about this either. “And to answer your question, McCall, I’m a jinn. Although American and English lore prefers to call us genies.” His eyes flashed violet and he chuckled, wiping at his nose where a golden hoop hung between his nostrils.

“Mustafa’s been in Beacon Hills since we were in high school.” Derek explained. “We’ve been close since we both revealed our true nature to each other. It’s not easy to be something supernatural and not have anyone to confide in.”

“Hale’s alright.” Damji said with a conspiratory smile. “We both wanted to look out for people like us, especially kids like us. So I went into medicine and caretaking, he went into law. We had this grand plan of helping each other out, helping out kids who were dealing with supernatural identity. Things got weird after the fire, though. We couldn’t really stick to the plan. So I came back first and started working in Eichen.” His explanation had calmed down Scott to some degree. At the very least, the alpha looked a little less ready to shred the guy up.

“So why are you here now?” Scott asked.

“I had visions about how to help Lydia. I was able to connect with her enough to be able to see for her.” Damji spoke smoothly and with confidence. “I could see what she’s going to need to do.” Kira and Malia looked impressed by this apparent promise, but neither Scott or Stiles could fully move past their suspicions so easily.

“So what is it that you saw her doing?” Stiles asked, moving to press even closer against Lydia’s side. Damji directed his attention to Stiles and broke into a wide smile.

“You’re Stilinski. She would talk about you sometimes when she was out of it.” Damji said with a smile. “You’re important to this plan.” Stiles tried not to be taken aback by the jinn’s instant recognition, but he was rendered momentarily speechless. When he found his voice, it was stronger than he had dared hope it would be.

“What do I have to do?” He asked.

“I can perform a ritual to send you into her mind. You can find her with your tether, and you can intervene between her and Allison. Convince her that she needs to sever the bond with Allison instead of with you.” Damji spoke as if these directions were terribly straightforward and explicit, but he could have been speaking in Portuguese for all that Stiles understood. But still, he nodded.

“Good. We’ll do it right away.” He looked to Deaton, who appeared somewhat starstruck to be in the presence of the jinn. “I assume you know the process I’m speaking of?” Deaton nodded quickly and rose to help clear out space in the room. As Kira, Malia, Melissa and Derek were shooed out, Scott hung around for a moment to approach the pair of them.

“Lydia,” Scott said quietly. She looked up blearily with her horror-story eyes to regard Scott. “If Allison is doing this… if she’s really hurting… would you please tell her how I love her?” A weak smile broke across Lydia’s lips which had faded to a smoky violet color.

“She knows, Scott. Believe me, she knows. But I will tell her before she goes, if it will help you.” Lydia said carefully. Stiles watched the exchange and realized the incredibly unique dynamic of Lydia holding a power and authority above Scott, granting him her permission to send along a message. It was only magnified by Scott’s palpable relief when she agreed to pass along his statement. Scott pulled her sideways into a tight, squeezing hug and laid a brotherly kiss in her hair.

“You’re gonna be okay, Lyds.” She didn’t respond to this, but pursed her lips and nodded slightly. She did not seem convinced. Scott was ushered out regardless. Stiles knew that the alpha was trying to get his attention on his way out, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at him. There was a sense of fear and shame creeping into his system, and he had a funny feeling that it wasn’t originating in his own mind. Yet, he couldn’t quite overcome it.

“Please get to the middle of the bed, sit facing each other.” Damji instructed, rummaging through Deaton’s bag with a sense of purpose. “This is a somewhat time sensitive ordeal now that she’s visually symptomatic.” Stiles carefully nudged Lydia into motion and crawled towards the middle of the bed, never letting his hand leave her arm. Once they were centered on the bed, they both moved to sit cross-legged, facing each other.

“Closer,” Deaton called out absently, barely even looking at the pair while he peered over Damji’s shoulder. Stiles took the liberty of moving closer into Lydia until their knees knocked against each other. Stiles took her hands in his and spared her a small smile, despite the feelings of dread that were settling around his ears like heavy cloud cover.

Damji was mixing up a combination of powders and having hushed dialogue with Deaton who was hovering over him and watching intently. Lydia didn’t seem very aware of anyone else anymore, though.

“Stiles,” she said, her expression suddenly splitting into terror and tearfulness. Stiles realized she must have been flushed with emotion, but with the thick, dark replacement running through her veins, her face and chest just slowly drained of color, discoloring into shades of pale grey.

“No, no, no, Lydia, it’s okay,” Stiles rushed to reassure her, panic surging through his system. He wondered if the feeling was his own. “You’re okay, don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

“Stiles, I can’t see! I can’t… oh my god, I can’t…”

It was a simultaneously horrifying and miserable and repulsive sight to witness. Her tears were clouded and opaque and looked thicker than water, and the liquid seemed to coat her eyes thicker and thicker each time she blinked.

“ _Deaton_!” Stiles yelled. Lydia was grasping to his hands like a life-line, her face frozen, lips slightly parted in silent sobs. The emissary came over with the jinn in tow.

“It has to be now, Damji.” Deaton said, shining his penlight over Lydia’s eyes and eliciting no response. Damji took the powder he had concocted in a clenched fist.

“Close your eyes, Stiles.” He instructed. Faced with no other options, Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and felt the explosion of powder on his face and heard Lydia gasp as the same treatment was administered to her. Stiles felt something being wrapped around his hands despite the fact that he and Lydia were still clinging to each other.

“Lean in until you are touching foreheads.” Damji instructed them. Gingerly, Stiles leaned forward until he connected with grainy texture of Lydia’s forehead. The dry concoction that had been administered to their faces made it feel as if they were both coated in sand.

“This is going to hurt,” Deaton warned briefly. Stiles was about to respond when he was overcome with a feeling of overwhelming pain the point of his forehead where he was touching Lydia. He heard his voice screaming along with Lydia’s, the sensation of burning on his forehead and in his hands until suddenly there was nothing.

It took him a moment of courage to open his eyes. As he looked around, all he could discern about this place was that it was very dark. And he was alone. Carefully, Stiles stood and found himself brushing off his pants as clumps of dirt had clung to him. He was outside then. Well, within the planes of Lydia’s mind, he was outside. With no small jump of panic, Stiles realized that Lydia was nowhere to be seen or heard.

“Lydia?” there was no response. As his eyes adjusted, Stiles became aware of a stirring breeze catching him from the back, and the light sound of leaves brushing against each other with the swaying of branches. He could detect dark shades of deep forest green and violent, dark red, but for the most part, things remained rather dark.

Then he noticed the string wrapped around his right pointer finger. It was a bright and lively red, and it practically glowed within the dark confines of Lydia’s mind. Stiles then remembered what Damji had told him- that he could follow his tether to find Lydia. Instinctively, he followed the red string, spooling it up around his hand as he followed it along.

Soon enough, he emerged into a well-lit clearing. It was perhaps the only place in Lydia’s mind where there was any light to be found at all. And that’s where he found them. Sitting on the nemeton. His eyes followed the string in his hands up to where it tied delicately around Lydia’s left pointer finger. Then he took in Lydia.

She looked healthy. Like she could see, and get out of bed and go to class if someone had asked her to. She didn’t look anything like the Lydia he’d bound himself to in reality. It made sense, he supposed. She wouldn’t want to think of herself or define herself based on her past month’s experiences. But as Lydia spoke quietly to Allison, gesturing with both her hands, Stiles noticed with a start that Lydia’s other hand was bearing a red string too. As his eyes struggled to follow its exact route, it became abundantly clear that it was attached to Allison on the other end. Captivating as Lydia was, Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of Allison. She looked so fully… alive. She seemed to catch him watching her, and she gave him a small smile.He cleared his throat, causing Lydia to see him too.

“You’re attached by the same kind of string as me and Lydia are,” he commented, trying to sound casual about the observation. Both Allison and Lydia nodded.

“It’s called the red string of fate.” Lydia said. She was using her academic lecturing voice-- the one she would use when she was reading out of their textbooks or explaining a concept to Stiles when he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. “Chinese and other East Asian cultures observe it as mythology. It’s supposed to connect two lovers, traditionally, but I’ve found the more accurate translation to be _soul mates_. The string make tangle or stretch or knot, but it will never break, so long as both parties are living. Obviously there’s been a little glitch in our system, what with the whole banshee thing, and death doesn't automatically sever the tether.” A heavy silence hung between the three of them.

All Stiles could think about was the words he had yelled at Lydia when they were standing in his bedroom two years ago.  _If you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind._ Those words hadn't been an exaggeration for him, but the gravity of what that meant was suddenly so much heavier. He realized that this meant that Lydia was choosing to feel that same way about him. She was taking the gamble and binding herself to him. He was going to need to be her anchor now, just like she had been- and still was- his. 

“So it’s fate that brought us all together?” Stiles asked, admittedly a little surprised that a person like Lydia would believe that love and friendship were predetermined by _fate_. Lydia shook her head vigorously, eyes shining, and Stiles' heart swelled.

“My understanding of the red string is that it’s the result, not the cause of close relationships. My relationships with you two defined how strong your tethers feel to me. So I like to think that these tethers aren’t made by destiny. They’re defined by our choices.” Allison looked at her with a blindingly bright smile, and Lydia returned the look.

“When you were in my head, there weren’t any tethers.” Stiles pointed out, thinking back to his days of being possessed by the nogitsune. Lydia shrugged at that.

“I think it’s a banshee thing. I’m connected to my soul mates in a much more… life-sustaining way.” She said carefully. Stiles absorbed this with a small nod.

“So… did you and Allison…?” Stiles started, trying to keep things delicate. “Since our tethers are all the same, were you two like…?” He struggled for the right words, and hoped a meaningful look at them would convey his question where he could not. Lydia smiled again at him, this time in a way that conveyed exemplary patience.

“‘Those who cannot conceive of Friendship as a substantive love but only as a disguise or elaboration of Eros betray the fact that they have never had a Friend.’” Lydia quoted softly, looking to Allison, then back to Stiles. “C.S. Lewis. He wrote essays on the four types of love. Friendship is the love that’s most vastly underrated and under-appreciated by outside observers. They could never know how much my friendship with Allison means to me. How much it means to us.”

“I get it,” Stiles assured her softly.

“And for what it’s worth, your tethers are very similar. They’re both strengthened by trust and friendship and love. They’re the same in all the ways it matters the most.” Lydia smiled again at Allison, but this time her face had gone pink and her eyes were tight, holding in tears.

Despite the darkness that surrounded them, Stiles could have sworn he saw black clouds shifting in the sky as the winds around them began to rise. Almost immediately after that, Stiles began to feel a soft throb of pain behind his forehead. Just the start of a headache, but Stiles had grown too aware of what the consequences of that could mean. The wind continued to pick up its pace.

“Is Allison’s tether pulling you?” Stiles asked Lydia, a little sharply. Both Allison and Lydia rose from their seats on the nemeton, the tether between them sagging loosely.

“I’m not pulling her on purpose if I am,” Allison said, eyes wide. “I know what’s happening and I’m trying not to let it touch her. I just… I have to die again. I’m scared.” Stiles felt his stomach doing flips, and realized that he must be feeling Allison’s emotions directly, to some degree.

“Allison,” Lydia croaked, her voice suddenly low and tight with emotion.

“We know you have to do it. We have to set things right, Lyds. We stole this time together as it is.” Allison said, clearly trying her best to sound reasonable. “Here.” She pressed one of her ring daggers into Lydia’s hand. Both their eyes hovered over the dagger, then they looked up at each other. Immediately they fell into the tightest embrace they could manage, arms winding  tight around each other, their faces buried in each others necks. There was a choking, sobbing sound from their embrace, and then the forest of Lydia’s mind erupted into brightness.

Stiles looked up in wonder, as he saw the sky, clear and cloudless, erupting into a rainbow ring of colors and light, with swirling, smoky plumes of red and gold at its center. It shone so bright that Stiles knew if he’d seen it in reality, it would have burned his eyes to watch, but in the safe, meta-conscience of Lydia’s mind, it was just beautiful. Both Allison and Lydia pulled back from their hug slightly so that they could observe the sky. Tears streamed down Lydia’s face, as if she recognized the phenomenon, but Allison was watching it with wonder and joy in her eyes. When she saw Lydia’s despondent expression, Allison took her face between her hands, forcing Lydia to look at her.

“Your mind is a supernova,” Allison coughed out, laughing and crying all at once, pressing a quick, loving kiss to Lydia’s forehead, her eyes following the explosions above with a look of childish wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”

“That’s only because you were one of the brightest stars and now you’re...” Lydia sobbed, unable to complete the metaphoric definition. “Oh my god, please don’t leave Ally, please don’t-don’t make me do this.” She was gasping for breath as she cried. “I can’t lose you again. You’re the only one who never left me… You’re the only one who really loves me.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Tears were streaming down Allison’s face and she took a deep shuddering breath, straightening up and looking at Stiles. Lydia followed her gaze while simultaneously winding her arms around Allison’s waist, holding tight, and minding the ring dagger clutched in her right hand. Her eyes were unfathomable as she looked over to Stiles who was watching, dumbfounded.

“I’ve been telling you, Lydia Martin, that I’ve been in love with you from the third grade. I would never lie about that to you.” Lydia regarded him with wary, red-rimmed eyes.

“I know you wouldn’t lie.” She said carefully. “But you’re not Allison. Just like I’m not Scott.” Stiles ducked his head in a nod and stayed quiet. He knew that she was right. And he couldn’t help but feel like his presence was somewhat of an intrusion rather than assistance. Lydia had turned away from him and was now looking up at Allison with wide, terrified eyes.

“There has to be another way.” Lydia said breathlessly. Allison squeezed her tight in another hug, seeming to soak up the sensations and touch in every motion.

“This time we had together was a gift for us both. We got to have those last conversations, and now we’re allowed to say goodbye. I never dreamed I would be that lucky.” Allison said, smiling despite the hiccup in her chest and the growing flush in her cheeks.  She sounded like the words were choking her, but she said them kindly anyways. “Would you tell Scott that I love him?” Stiles committed the scene to memory. Scott may find some closure that way.

“He wanted us to tell you the same thing for the same reason,” Stiles said, putting on his best attempt at a smile.

“Good. Tell him I love him back?” Allison amended her message.

“Of course.” Stiles said. Allison gave him a sad smile and a tight hug. It felt strange, like she was only half-there, but the warmth provided Stiles with the strength to believe that she was really there. Once they separated, Stiles stepped back out of their way, and Allison rounded on Lydia, who was crying silently.

“It’s time to say goodbye now, Lydia.”

“I can’t,” Lydia cried. Her voice had broken down into sobs and she dropped the ring dagger on the ground next to her feet. Stiles knew that this was the time to intervene, and he swiftly moved to her side, picking up the dagger and putting it back into her hand, then curling his hand around hers to keep it in her grip. Allison had taken a couple of steps back and with streaming eyes, she gathered up an arms length of the red string connecting her to Lydia. She held it taut, and raised it up in front of Lydia.

“Aren’t you going to fight this at all?” Lydia whispered, looking at Allison, her eyes accusing her, begging her to contradict the challenge.

“Why? And have to know that I’m what killed you? I couldn’t steal your life like that Lydia. I told you already, I’m not pulling you to the other side on purpose. I’m just being taken by the tide, and you’re standing on the shore trying to keep me close with…” she gestured to their tether. “ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger_ , Lydia. You’ve got to do this. For me.”

“I can’t,” Lydia repeated, her voice faltering. Allison closed her eyes briefly, pain evident on her face as she pressed her lips into a tight line. Stiles inched forward until he was pressed flush into her back. He kept his right hand wrapped around hers to keep the dagger in her shaky grasp, and he wrapped his left arm around her waist, letting his chin fall to rest on her right shoulder. She leaned back so their heads were leaning into each other, their breathing falling into one. Despite Allison’s continued presence in front of them, Stiles could feel her start to calm. Her grip around the ring dagger tightened. Stiles pressed a slow, encouraging kiss into the side of her neck and gently let go of her dominant hand, stepping around to the side of her.

Lydia raised the dagger up so she was holding it out just below chest height, but her expression faltered again as she met Allison’s eyes. Without looking away from the spectre of her best friend, she reached her left hand out towards Stiles in a silent plea: _don’t make me do this alone_. Silently, Stiles took her hand in his, squeezing it tightly, observing silently as the two ends of their string were joined in their grasp. It was only seconds before the pain started to roll in through the junction of their hands.

It was unlike anything that Stiles had ever felt. He knew it was the overflow that Deaton had been talking about happening again-- when Lydia reached her capacity for emotional and mental pain, he became her reservoir. But _god damn it_ , how could she stand any more than what he was feeling? It was everything he imagined that Lydia and Allison were feeling all rolled into one: panic, guilt, hopelessness, loss of direction, grief, anger… everything. And beneath those emotions was a painful throbbing within his skull, as if someone was trying to break out from within his skull using a sledgehammer.

“It was worth all of it.” Lydia said quietly. Stiles focused himself on her voice as she stared down her best friend. “It was worth everything that happened to get to see you again. Even if this isn’t real, even if it’s just the biggest hallucination I’ve ever experienced, it was worth it.” She wasn’t hysterical anymore. She was just… calm. Emotionally, Stiles could feel her radiating grief, and guilt, and feelings of weakness.  Allison observed her with brown, doe-eyes, wide and innocent and trusting, but then allowed her face to light up with a smile.

“It was real, Lydia. I promise it was real.” Allison said, smiling through her tears. Lydia matched her expression with a look of relief. “I’ll tell everyone over there that you guys say hi, okay? And that you love them.” Stiles felt a catch in his throat, and he longed to look away, but he didn’t dare. He just squeezed Lydia’s hand and watched in silence.

“Okay.” Lydia said softly.

“Okay.” Allison answered. Lydia reached out with the ring dagger, and held it above the tether. She looked up to meet Allison’s eyes again, and they reassured her. _It’s alright. I don’t blame you_.

“I'm so sorry.” Lydia said. Allison nodded fiercely.

“I love you, Lydia. I’ll see you again someday.” Allison reassured her. Lydia dropped her head quickly in understanding. Allison then leaned in, and whispered something urgently into Lydia's ear. The banshee's eyes widened, but as Allison pulled back, Lydia gave a serious, single nod. 

“I love you so much, Allison.” Lydia said in a tight voice, and in one quick motion, she cut downwards with the dagger, and the second it hit the tether, Allison was gone.

The supernova that had been lighting up the sky was gone too. Only Stiles and Lydia remained. Stiles realized, with relief, that the pain and inorganic emotion he had been feeling before was gone. Lydia’s eyes were squeezed shut tightly. She took a couple of deep breaths before opening them slowly. And with confusion, hope, and relief in their expressions, Stiles and Lydia slowly looked towards each other.

It was over.

Stiles reached over and grabbed her fiercely, pulling her into his chest and she cried. He was crying too. Allison was dead. But Lydia was alive. She was alive and she was going to stay alive and she wasn’t going to leave him. He held her tighter. She was so alive.

There were no words exchanged between them. What she had done hung heavily between them, and Stiles knew that she couldn't say anything about it. Not yet.

Stiles realized that the sky was lightening, and as he turn his gaze upwards, he recognized the warm pastel colors of dawn.

They were going to be okay. He closed his eyes again and buried his face into Lydia’s hair and waited to wake up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I actually can't believe that I got this all written out in a week. It's my longest chapter to date, and (in my opinion) one of my best. It's also the second-to-last chapter, which means I'll be wrapping this story up with chapter 12. Leave me a comment and/or message me on tumblr at [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com), I always love to hear from you!
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	12. Bless Their Tortured, Tangled Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only one thing was abundantly clear within the pack, it was that love was fickle. Love was hard and transcendent and infuriating. But above all, you can't know you've never felt love until you finally find it.

Melissa wondered what the protocol was here. She had been waiting outside of the bedroom with the rest of the pack when Deaton had shooed them out. She was a mother and a nurse and a generally compassionate person and here was a group of children (yes, she counted Derek as a child, he really was at heart) that needed comfort and she didn’t know how to give it to them. She was out of her depth, and there wasn’t ever really a good way to learn the ins and outs of this weird little supernatural world that her son had introduced her to only a couple of years ago. It was always a learning process, even for the pack, and it made her feel sort of helpless.

She watched the strain that this trauma put on the rest of the pack with the sad sort of understanding that she would employ for the families of patients in the ICU or the long-term care wing. There was nothing they could really do to help, but they always felt the need to be there, to hover and be present just in case the opportunity to help arose in some way. But more often than not, they were just… _there_.

Scott had lingered behind in the room to tell Stiles and Lydia something, maybe offer his help or support, and Melissa stared as her son’s back as he spoke quietly to the pair. She was able to recognize, as she had before, that he was the one who was most equipped to help and offer support. But it wounded Melissa knowing that his help always came at a cost to his own well-being. A few days earlier, Scott had taken Lydia’s pain for a while, in an attempt to mend the rift that had formed between them. From what Melissa had gleaned, it had been immensely helpful to Lydia, but painful to Scott. And even after Scott told her that the pain was gone, he seemed different. More burdened, more pensive, and generally distracted. She wished so badly that she had the power to take _his_ pain away from him. Any decent parent would want to be able to protect their child that way.

But he too was sent out of the room eventually. He declined the offer from Kira to sit down on the couch beside her. He was too worried, and he paced the floor behind the couch, nearest to the door. He wanted to help, but he couldn’t do anything. It was all up to Stiles and Lydia.

Frantic words had started coming from behind the door, and Scott stopped pacing, staring intently at the door. Listening in, Melissa realized. She watched the color leave Scott’s face preceding the sound of Stiles calling sharply for Deaton from within the room. Even Melissa could hear Lydia sobbing.

She looked around, taking in the reaction of the pack, realizing with some surprise that Malia was back on her feet and all four of the kids were staring at the door with intense, worried expressions. Kira and Derek were both poised to rise from the couch and chair they had been occupying. _They had all been listening in_ , Melissa realized. She wondered distantly if they did it intentionally, or if it just happened. She supposed that she knew which one it was in this instance.

Then the screaming started, and in the blink of an eye, the pack had vacated the living room and had trucked through the previously locked door of the bedroom. Even if they couldn’t help, they wanted to be there. It was what families did when a patient coded at the hospital, even if the doctors and nurses tried to keep them out. It was the horrifying, instinct-driven need to be there, no matter how bad it was going to be. That was what family did. As Melissa followed the group into the bedroom, she realized that she finally understood what the pack was for these children. It was a family.

* * *

Derek couldn’t help the way his feet carried him back into the bedroom. He knew that it was pack instinct that drove him towards the banshee’s scream like the howl of another wolf, but the drop of fear in his stomach was not supernatural. He knew that for a fact.

By the time the pack had reached the bed, the screaming had stopped, and both Lydia and Stiles were crumpled motionless on the duvet of the bed. Their faces were coated in a rusty red powder, and Stiles’ right hand was tangled up in Lydia’s left, but both of their eyes were closed, and their hands seemed to be only touching because of the red ribbon tied around their shared grasp.

“What happened to their heads?” Scott asked with a thick voice, void of control. Derek’s eyes shot back to their foreheads and noticed what Scott had asked about: black, burnt marks of ash along each of their hairlines.

“It was a part of the process to meld their consciousnesses without werewolf intervention. Dehydrated djinn venom. It's not toxic in this form, but it _is_  hallucinogenic. But it has to be, really. If I had had more time, it wouldn’t have needed to be so… violent,” Damji explained carefully. “I could have put them in a trance the correct way. But we were pressed for time.”

Derek looked down on the two teenagers with a deep feeling of sorrow burrowing its way from his chest to his throat. He was intimately aware of how he had been their same age when he had lost someone he loved to his own stupid pride. It had been a balm to the perpetually-open wound in his chest to see Stiles and Lydia trying to correct their own mistakes made by out of pride and painful measures of self-preservation. He felt like he could live again without such heavy guilt about Paige if he knew that his pain had helped protect his pack from imploding from a similar tragedy. Protect them from more death.

_But what if it was too late?_

Derek closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose, trying to quiet the thoughts that assaulted his conscience. He couldn’t be too late. He had tried so hard, done so much to try to stop this. He’d pulled out his law degree. He’d reached out to Damji to mend the wounds that Derek had inflicted on their friendship following the fire that had claimed his family. It had all been to prevent this tragedy from coming about, from losing Lydia (and perhaps Stiles, in the process).

Derek must have stood there, leaning wearily against the wall with eyes shut tight, breath still flowing in and out, but through a constricted throat and chest heavy with fear. He should have brought Lydia to their attention earlier. Should have known where she’d gone. Should have gotten to her sooner.

_Should have, should have, should have._

Those two words had been following him around for too long, for too many reasons. For Paige, for the family he’d lost in the fire, for Erica, Boyd, and Allison. For not stopping Peter turning Scott McCall in the first place. Derek knew that he was responsible for these kids wading in up to their necks in supernatural danger.

If he lost these two packmates, these two… _friends_ … he didn’t know if he could continue to stand under the guilt that weighed heavily on his back. He was a werewolf, not Atlas. He could not continue to shoulder the weight of the world in its most potent form: guilt.

When he was sure he couldn’t keep up his very fragmented and broken façade of calm for another second, he heard the sharp inhalation of breath from the bed, and the muted thud of speeding heartbeats.

And suddenly, he could breathe again.

* * *

Scott found himself frozen in place as he watched Stiles and Lydia’s chests heave upwards in a choked, synchronized breath, their eyes flying wide open with expressions of shock and sudden awakening. Lydia had awoken on her back, Stiles on his side facing Lydia, and they both immediately looked towards each other, unblinking, both breathing heavily as if they had spent the previous ten minutes holding their breath. Stiles was the first to move, and when he did, it was a single, fluid motion that flew him into a tackling hug on top of Lydia. His arms snaked under her back around her shoulders and waist, his head tucking into her shoulder as he wrapped her in an embrace that communicated relief and pride above all else.

“You did it.” Stiles’ voice was muffled in Lydia’s shoulder, but it was clear enough to Scott. Relief swelled in his chest, and Scott was unable to resist the urge to join them. He jumped on the bed and reached around to hold them both, hugging them as tight as he could. It was only a matter of seconds before Kira and Malia and even Derek joined the embrace, wrapping around Lydia and Stiles from every angle. Scott felt tears of relief forming in his eyes, and the emotional output of his pack went from panic, pain and fear to liberation and pride and joy.

Eventually the hug broke apart when Lydia wheezed, “I love you guys, but you’re crushing my lungs.” They all moved out of the dog pile until it was just Stiles hanging onto her as if she’d just saved his life. Scott realized that she probably had. “I’m not going anywhere, Stiles, you can let go.” Lydia said with a slight smirk on her face.

Stiles relented with a look of amusement, contentment, and love, and Scott felt an overwhelming sense of relief to see those long-absent emotions play out on his best friend’s face. She and Stiles brushed the red powdery dust off of their faces, untangling the red string that had bound their hands together, exchanging a meaningful look all the while. Once they had sorted themselves out, Lydia stood up off the bed, looking noticeably more stable and healthy than she had in months.

Kira was the first to grab her in an upright hug, and while momentarily taken aback by this, Lydia quickly returned the gesture, standing on the tips of her toes to reach around the kitsune’s neck.

Malia came forward next, her eyes conveying her lingering uncertainty of what kind of packmates they were, whether or not Lydia was willing to put trust in her. Lydia extended her arms out towards Malia, and the werecoyote gave a sheepish, shy smile, returning the hug gently as if afraid to hurt Lydia with her superior strength. Lydia compensated for the softness with a tight, reassuring grip around Malia, and for a moment, they both seemed to feel a sense of relief and closure to whatever conflict had existed between them.  Scott noticed how Malia continued to smile even after they let go.

Derek looked a little embarrassed as Lydia approached him next, but when she reached out to him, he swept her up in a hug with such strength that her feet left the ground. Their hug lasted longer than the ones before, and Scott suspected he knew why. There was a mutual sense of supported vulnerability between them, and Scott was sure that Derek had been hurt by this ordeal in ways that only Lydia would ever hear about. They needed each other in this strangely lonely way, and despite the rekindled connection between each of them and the pack, Scott assumed that their friendship was one that they would both continue to need.

When Derek finally let her down, Lydia turned and looked to Scott, who had been waiting for his turn patiently, bumping arms with Stiles. When they made eye contact, he smiled broadly and held out his arms. She buried herself into his chest and he wrapped around her tightly, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of her heart through her ribs. Scott then felt her positive emotions falter, giving way to apprehension.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asked, backing out of the hug slightly, but allowing his hands to remain on her shoulders, feeling his concern pulling heavily on his own features.

“I just… Scott, this means she’s really gone,” Lydia said, guilt radiating from her like perfume. Scott felt himself stiffen a little bit.

“I knew that, Lydia. Don’t feel bad about that. You’re the reason I even heard from her again, I’m not mad at you for that,” Scott said, forcing a small smile. Lydia looked over to Stiles, who was watching Scott with similar levels of tension.

“She wanted us to pass along a message,” Stiles hedged. Scott was suddenly very aware of Kira’s eyes on him.  “She wanted us to tell you that she loves you, and that she wants you to go be happy. She wants you to feel closure.” Scott heard the quiet whoosh of Kira’s breath exiting her lungs, and he felt the relief that Kira had felt at the announcement, and yet he still felt numb in his own right. She was really, permanently gone. And though she had been dead for months, Scott felt this loss almost as acutely as the first, with Allison’s profession of love and hope hitting him like a wrecking ball to the chest. He gave Lydia one more reassuring hug before giving a wet-eyed smile to the rest of the pack and excusing himself, rushing out of the room before anyone could stop him.

He knew that the wolf, fox, and coyote could hear him when he went up to the loft, but he went there anyways, and he let out a choked sob. He loved her, he lost her, he found her, he lost her. And now here he was, catching himself loving her again when he knew she was gone for good.

* * *

Kira looked between the rest of the members of the pack as Scott darted out. After he was out of eyeshot, Malia, Derek, Lydia and Stiles all looked to her almost expectantly. She felt her cheeks growing hot, and she looked back towards Lydia and Malia, begging wordlessly for help. Kira’s anxiety only heightened when she looked back towards the door to see Ms. McCall looking at her too. Of course Ms. McCall was there.

Kira wondered absently if Scott’s mother would think that he was crying because of her. Of course he wasn’t crying because of her, but one can never know what the uninformed observer will assume. For that reason, Kira usually presumed that they thought the worst. That was what Stiles had done when Lydia had her episode only an hour or so ago. He had thought that she and Scott had done something wrong. Kira was pulled out of her anxiety-fueled downwards spiral by Melissa McCall saying her name.

“Kira, do you want to go up there? I don’t know if he’d want me or you there,” Ms. McCall asked kindly.  Kira wanted to make that decision less than she had ever wanted a decision in her life, but when she glanced at Malia and Lydia, they each gave her an encouraging nod.

“Yeah, um, I’ll go up. I’ll come get you if he doesn’t want me there,” Kira said, trying to sound more confident in that decision than she really was. Ms. McCall nodded her approval, and Kira was relieved to have done something right.

Kira looked over to where Lydia was leaning up against Stiles, each with an arm wrapped around each other’s waists. They both looked hugely apologetic, but not entirely remorseful.

“He needs you right now, Kira,” Lydia assured her. Kira nodded and glanced around between her other packmates before excusing herself to go see Scott.

She walked up the stairs to the next floor with anxiety sitting heavily in her throat. Despite their earlier conversations about Allison, there was no denying that she always seemed to be on his mind. When she reached the sliding doors of the loft, she realized that she had spent the entire walk worrying instead of planning out something to say. But she heard Scott crying quietly inside, valiantly trying to quiet the noise of his own grief. Kira pushed the doors open and slid inside.

He was sitting in the corner of the sectional couch, his knees drawn up to his chest and his shoulders slumped while his face was covered by his hands. The posture made him seem so much smaller, so much more vulnerable. It made Kira’s heart ache, and suddenly, she realized that she couldn’t be focusing all her energy on what she might do wrong. She needed to make things right for him, and worrying couldn’t be a part of that.

She couldn’t be scared about impressing his mom.

She shouldn’t be insecure about whether he really liked her.

She didn’t need to feel threatened by another girl, because the other girl was dead. And his heart would ache, yes, and maybe he’d push her away. But Kira’s mom had taught her about this sort of thing when she was very small, when her best friend’s brother had drowned, and her friend had pushed her away, not wanted to speak with her anymore.

_“Grief will happen to all of us, Kira. We’re all going to lose someone we love someday. I know that’s so scary to think about, but it’s true. When people lose someone they love, they might be mean to their friends or their family because they are in so much pain that they don’t know what to do,” her mother said, reaching down and pulling on one of Kira’s jet black pigtails._

_“Why would they do that? Why won’t Violet come play with me? It might make her feel better,” Kira had insisted. Her mother crouched down in front of her fully so they were looking eye-to-eye. She smoothed out Kira’s bangs, and let her hands come down to rest warmly on Kira’s shoulders._

_“That is a very good point Kira, and I think you’re right. She would feel better if she played with you. But sometimes when something bad happens, you’re so sad that even happy things can’t cheer you up. So when that happens, when someone you care about is in pain, sometimes they don’t need to to try and make them happy. But they might need someone to spend time with them and let them be sad, and know that someday they’ll be happy again,” her mother insisted. Kira’s lips twisted, tears filling her eyes._

_“Okay,” Kira said, her voice trembling._

_“Do you understand?” Her mother followed up, looking at Kira seriously. Kira chewed on her lip as a fat tear rolled down her cheek._

_“No,” Kira finally said honestly. “I just want her to be happy and play with me again.” Her mother kissed her head and scooped her into a hug, standing up with Kira in her arms._

_“That’s okay, baby. Someday you’ll understand.”_

Kira approached Scott, and felt any words she might have had prepared dry up, shrivel, and die in her mouth. As she stopped in front of him, Scott slowly raised his head to look up.

“Kira,” he said quietly. His voice was shaky and small and so, so sad. Kira sat down wordlessly, next to Scott and wrapping her arms around him tightly. To her surprise, he moved into her touch and curled up into her, his head on her chest. She leaned into him, cheek on the top of his head, and let herself steady her breathing as he continued to cry.

Grief was pain and it was loss and it was anger at the gross unfairness of the way that life goes. But most of all it was missing someone. Missing who they were when they died, who they were when you met, and everyone that they were in between those two, concrete bookends.

Scott had seen her again, and he had seen hope. He had probably hoped that maybe endings weren’t so set in stone, and maybe he could have his first love, his friend, and his packmate back. He loved her in every iteration of her existence and yet there was no way to bring her back. It wasn’t a loss that Kira could fix. But it was an ache that she might be able to lessen, a burden he didn’t have to carry alone. With her help, someday he could be happy again.

She was starting to think she might understand grief.

Despite that, the thought echoed like a gunshot through her head, reverberating over and over.

_Why us?_

* * *

Malia had watched the way that Stiles and Lydia interacted after Lydia was untethered from Allison. How could she not? She wasn’t stupid, and Stiles hadn’t meant nothing to her, after all.  They seemed happy. There was something about the flow of their relationship that seemed natural on an animalistic level that Malia could see and understand better than anyone else in the pack.

She noticed the way that Stiles’s arm coiled tightly around Lydia’s waist. How he wouldn’t move away from her to let Deaton or Damji check her out.

She noticed the way that Lydia seemed to sink into him when they made contact. The way that she assured everyone that she was fine, yes, she’d be okay despite Stiles’s eyes boring into the side of her head, as if he knew that couldn’t be true.

But most painful of all, Malia could see that they weren’t all that different than they had been before. Sure, they were more open with their physical contact and they didn’t get red and look away awkwardly when they caught each other staring anymore, but Malia knew that this was how they were. It was how they’d been before her, what they’d forced themselves not to be when she was with Stiles, and it was what they would continue to be for as long as they were both breathing.

She talked to Derek about it a few nights after Stiles and Lydia had woken up. They were still staying in the apartment below while Lydia got her strength back, but they were due to move out in within the next day or two.

“Why do you think Stiles lied to me? About liking me?” Malia asked, trying to sound casual as she and Derek were eating a dinner of Hamburger Helper. He looked up from his plate with raised eyebrows, and took in the fact that she hadn’t touched her food beyond drizzling gravy designs across the ceramic plate with her fork. He put down his silverware on the plate and wiped his mouth before answering.

“To be completely honest with you, Malia, I don’t think it was a total lie at the time,” Derek said diplomatically. “I think that Stiles genuinely liked you. He probably still does in some ways.”

“He thinks I’m pretty still, and we’re kind of still friends, I know that. But I’m wondering why he went out with me at all when he always liked Lydia so much. It’s like… I was fireworks to him, but she was the stars,” Malia said, uncomfortable with her own illustrative speech. She blamed it on Derek forcing her to read Keats and Whitman. To her dismay, she had really liked their works. Derek seemed surprised and impressed by her words, and rested his chin on the knuckles of his clasped hands while his elbows rested on the table.

“That’s a very fair question. I can’t give you the real answer, only Stiles can do that, but I think that you kind of understand why already,” Derek said carefully. Malia thought in silence for a moment.

“Because… the stars are too far away, he could never reach them,” she said, frustrated with the tears that were welling in her eyes. “And I was something beautiful, and within reach, and… distracting.” Derek sighed quietly, moving his head so that his forehead rested on his hands for a moment. After what felt like eternity, he looked back up at Malia, who was staring at him with tears on her cheeks and a defiant look in her eyes that screamed, _I’m not crying._

“You’re allowed to be mad and sad about this, Malia. It’s a form of loss, and it’s the first time you’ve had a romantic relationship end. I love Lydia, and Stiles is okay for a teenaged dumbass, but you’re allowed to be frustrated with him for not being straightforward with you. That’s his mistake, not yours,” Derek said quietly. “Or Lydia’s.” Malia nodded quietly, absorbing the words and feeling the fire in her chest slowly dwindle.

“I’m not mad at Lydia,” Malia asserted first. “Kira already talked to me about how it wasn’t her fault, and how even though she liked Stiles while we were dating, she never tried to steal him or make him leave me, even though it hurt her. She said that girls get pitted against each other like this a lot, and it’s not right for us to hate each other.” It had not been a hard concept for Malia to grasp, and she truly wasn’t mad with the banshee. She was envious, maybe, but not angry.

“Then be mad with Stiles. Be sad. Talk to your friends, and not just me,” Derek said, looking at her critically beneath a raised eyebrow. “It’s been four days since the pack was all together down there and you haven’t reached out to anyone since.” Malia began to protest before realizing he was right.

“Do they even want me around? I feel like they think I’m the bad guy for being with Stiles,” Malia admitted quietly.

“I think they do want you around. Lydia felt like the bad guy for liking Stiles when you were dating, and she isolated herself and didn’t reach out for help and look at what happened to her,” Derek said, his tone cautionary. “I don’t say that to make you feel bad about dating him, just to warn you not to make Lydia’s mistakes. You might not fall to the brink of death but you’ll push your friends away and hurt yourself in the process.”

Malia dipped her head and looked down at her cold dinner, still untouched. She knew that Derek was right, of course he was right, he always was. But she got tired of telling him that. Derek seemed to sense that was the case and he rose, walking to her side of the table. He reached around her and gave her an awkward hug before picking up her plate and walking towards the kitchen.

“I’m going to heat this back up. Call Kira or someone and ask her to hang out,” Derek instructed. Malia stared at his back, a little irritated that she had been bossed around so effectively. As the microwave hummed, Malia walked over and reached to pick up her phone from the coffee table but paused, eyes on Derek’s phone. She glanced momentarily back over to the kitchen where Derek’s head was in the fridge as he rummaged around for something. She then grabbed his phone off the table, typed in his passcode, and hurriedly made for his contacts list. She found the name she had been looking for in the H’s, the contact he’d kept out of her grasp since she moved in. She hit the name, and put the phone up to her ear. Derek had leaned out of the fridge to look over at her when the phone started ringing, and he noticed immediately that it wasn’t her phone.

“What are you doing?” He asked, shutting the fridge. She didn’t answer, but held up one finger indicating for him to wait. Eyes widening, he started, “Are you calling…?” She raised an eyebrow at him and he immediately scrambled away from the fridge towards her.

“Can it wait?” Malia asked him, dancing away from him, over the couch and towards the dinner table. He followed with equal dexterity, but greater speed. He caught her by the shoulder and proceeded to tackle her to the ground, landing heavily on her legs. They began to hit and kick at each other as Derek reached desperately for the phone

“Hang up the phone, this was literally one of the five rules I gave you! You can’t call-“

“Derek?” A female voice echoed through the phone and both Malia and Derek froze.

“No, actually. It’s Malia,” Malia answered politely. There was a moment of radio silence over the receiver before the voice answered.

“Malia? Like… Peter Hale’s daughter?” Malia snarled a little at the phone and the voice on the other end laughed. “Yeah, you’re Peter’s.”

“So you know who I am?” Malia asked, trying to keep the anger out of her voice. Derek made one last little struggle towards the phone, but it was half-hearted and Malia pinned his arm down by catching his wrist in the bend of her knee.

“Yeah, Derek told me about you, but I guess we’ve never really spoken. So, hey cousin. I'm Cora. What’s up?”

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski had watched his son pine after Lydia for almost a decade. For the better part of that decade, Lydia had ignored the kid. Whether or not Stiles had been creepy and persistent enough to warrant that, he’d never know. But when the pair of them reached his house after vacating the Hale apartment, he could see plainly that there was no resistance on either end of the relationship anymore.

Stiles had driven them back in his god-forsaken Jeep, and when he parked in the driveway, they sat in the cab for a moment, exchanging conversation about something that must have been very trivial. Stilinski could tell based on Lydia’s amused-yet-exasperated expression and Stiles’s clear dedication to the topic. It seemed that the conversation had ended in Stiles’s favor because Lydia rolled her eyes and Stiles pressed a sweet kiss to her cheek. Stilinski then watched at Lydia allowed Stiles to go around to her side of the car and open the door for her, Lydia looking like she was suppressing a smile the whole time. He helped her out of the car, and to Stilinski’s relief, Lydia already looked healthier than she had when he’d stopped by the place a few days ago. She was still pale, her figure was still a little too small for the light blue dress she wore, and her movements were still a little too slow and deliberate.

But despite her bluster, Stilinski had seen the way that Lydia now looked at Stiles, especially when he wasn’t looking at her. The sheriff used to joke with Melissa McCall about the way Stiles chased after Lydia, saying that the sun could burn out and Stiles wouldn’t notice if Lydia was in the room. Stilinski had never allowed himself to hope, much less believe that she’d ever return the look. But as he watched his son help that girl out of the car, fussing about her skirt and reaching around her to get out her purse, Lydia’s eyes tracked him with disbelieving wonder.

The sheriff couldn’t help but wonder if any of those boys she dated had ever been nice to her. Jackson had been a prick, he knew that much from firsthand experience with the kid. From what Stiles told him about Aiden, the sheriff had always been on high alert when Lydia was in their house, looking for physical signs of abuse on the girl. He doubted she’d ever experienced kindness the way his son gave it to her. A guiding hand on her lower back, a kindly whispered word and a wink, a kiss on the side of her cheek when she let him win an playful argument. These were all true signs of kindness. And the sheriff swore that when she walked through their front door, a whole week after hitting the turning point in this whole nasty mess, she still looked dazed by the way that Stiles was continuing to treat her.

“Hey Lydia, it’s good to have you on your feet! You’re looking much more like yourself,” the sheriff told her kindly. She flushed a sweet, pale pink and bobbed her head.

“Thanks, Sheriff. I feel more like myself. Except for the way that _someone_ insists on being my personal butler despite my quite constant and explicit requests for him to _cut it out,_ ” she said sweetly, giving Stiles a slightly antagonized look. The sheriff could see the affection in her stare and hid his grin behind twitching lips.

“Well, if you and your butler would like to come into the kitchen, we’ve got a gourmet dinner waiting for you,” the sheriff said with a smirk. “Poppa’s Pizza. Delivered, not picked up.” He looked to Lydia and leaned in to add the aside, “I usually just pick it up myself because I don’t like having to pay a tip, but I thought I’d splurge for you two.” Lydia smiled broadly.

“Oh you didn’t have to go through all the trouble,” she said, adopting a worried but appreciative expression. One look at his son told him that she had succeeded in reclaiming her sense of humor. The sheriff was glad for that. It must have been why Stiles had taken all of her complaints about his overbearing nature in stride.

Lydia entered the kitchen and as she passed the sheriff, he got the sense that something was still off, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. As she approached the pizza box, Stiles leaned into his dad.

“She’s still not in heels, so she looks short to you. She’s not ready yet,” he said quietly. With a smooth gait, Stiles continued past him and into the kitchen to join Lydia at the table. The sheriff balked slightly at Stiles’s ability to read him and his attentiveness to every detail of the redhead at the table. Shaking his head, he returned to the conversation.

“I have a shift to start down at the station for the night, you two going to be alright sorting yourselves out here?” The sheriff asked, leaning his head into the kitchen.

“Yeah, dad, we’ll be good,” Stiles said, grabbing three pieces of cheese pizza at once.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Lydia replied, glancing up and looking genuinely grateful for the little piece of normalcy that he was affording to her. The sheriff nodded to her, then started getting his things together in the front hall. When the two of them started to chatter, he couldn’t help but listen in.

“He got half Hawaiian for me,” the sheriff heard Lydia say, her voice gleeful.

“Of course he did. You need to take more than one piece, though,” Stiles asserted.

“I’ll get there when I get there, Stilinski. You don’t have to monitor everything I eat.”

“First of all, I said that because I don’t like Hawaiian and if there are leftovers and I accidentally eat a piece thinking it’s just cheese or something and it ends up being Hawaiian, I’ll vomit. Second of all, yes, I do, you’re never hungry so you need someone to tell you to eat at actual human frequencies in actual human quantities.”

The sheriff could hear the second slice of pizza get dropped onto her plate, and he could almost hear her subsequent eye roll.

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me.”

The sheriff waited a moment in the uncomfortable silence that followed before shuffling his shoes on the wood of the entry way and calling out in a raised voice, “I’m heading out now, you kids stay out of trouble.” He heard a snort from the kitchen.

“You hear that Stiles? Stay out of trouble.”

“Oh my god, woman. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the troublemaker in the room.”

“Oh really? Do we need anecdotal proof? Because I’m pretty sure there’s a whole filing cabinet in the police station marked ‘Excused Stilinski Misdemeanors’ and-“ The sheriff shut the door behind him, satisfied with their answers.

He wasn’t worried about Lydia hurting Stiles anymore. She couldn’t leave him if she tried.

* * *

Stiles’s dad was gone within minutes of them arriving. He had basically sent them into the kitchen, said goodbye, tried to eavesdrop and then actually left. Stiles was almost offended.

“Did he think we didn’t know he was there?” He asked Lydia, desperation and annoyance coloring his voice and features. Lydia looked at him over the second half of her first piece of pizza and shrugged. She turned her chair to face him and propped her feet up onto his lap.

“I think we scared him away with the lapse in the conversation,” she reasoned. Stiles noticed the forced evenness to her tone, but chose not to comment on it, instead pointing to her pink-socked feet.

“This is unsanitary. I’m eating right now,” he said with mock offense.

“My feet are actually more sterile than your cell phone, in all likeliness,” Lydia informed him, taking another small bite of her pizza with a smile, eyeing his phone which sat next to his plate on the table. Stiles might have typically tried to fight back on the point, but instead, he stretched his own legs out under the table, propping his feet up on the seat of the chair across from him. He let his free hand drop down onto one of Lydia’s ankles, his thumb brushing over the angles of the joint with practiced familiarity.

“Okay, you win,” he said generously. Lydia smirked at him and continued to work on her slice, falling back into the silence that had reigned earlier when they had been joking around with his father still eavesdropping in the front hall. Lydia’s eyes were slightly downcast as she ate, and she looked intent on not meeting his eye. Uncomfortable with the silence, Stiles ran a quick, deft finger up the sole of her foot, causing her to squeak and jump, withdrawing her legs from his lap.

“You’re such a child,” Lydia snipped, looking at him disdainfully.

“And you love me anyways,” Stiles said, his voice only half-joking. Lydia looked up at him through her eyelashes, suddenly shy when faced with the confrontation.

“You’re right,” Lydia replied, eyes locked on him intensely. “I do.”

“Well you’re in luck, because I’m kind of wild about you too,” Stiles said. “As if that wasn’t obvious from our previous nine years of knowing each other.” Lydia smiled at him with a bright grin, dimples forming in her cheeks, and Stiles could have sworn that even with dusk falling outside, the room had grown suddenly brighter.

“Even though my favorite pizza is… what did you call it? An abomination that can’t decide whether it’s a barbeque sandwich or a fruit pastry?” Lydia teased, her humor and demeanor lightening as the moment passed. Stiles recognized her discomfort regarding these real emotions, but let it lie, as he had in the days prior. Whatever her reasons, he was sure they would get to it eventually. They would get through anything. So he decided to simply revel in the humor that had finally returned to his girl.

“You have impeccable taste in literally every other sense, Lydia, I honestly have no idea why you like the redheaded-stepchild of the pizza world. You shame me, as an Italian.” Lydia’s nostrils flared as she suppressed her laughter under a mask of mild bemusement.

“You’re not Italian. You’re… what? Polish? Irish?” She asked, looking at him critically as if discerning his ancestry through a study of his face. Stiles grinned under her intense scrutiny, watching her catalogue him as if she could compute the statistical likelihood of his heritage through some mental algorithm. She was right, after all. She always was.

She was brilliant and bright and ruthless. In the past days, Lydia had become so intent on everything returning to normal that she overcompensated sometimes when asserting her genius. It delighted Stiles to no end to find that beneath her mathematical and linguistic genius there was a wealth of interpersonal, worldly, trivial knowledge that she had still kept hidden away. He was elated that it was his to share now.

“Something like that. But I’m Italian in every way it counts: enjoying gondola rides, eating gelato, and being an authority on good pizza, which that… is not.” He pointed at the two remaining triangle slices of Hawaiian in the pizza box with an expression that would imply that the pizza was actually fresh road kill and not an intentionally crafted combination of bread, cheese and toppings. Lydia sighed through her nose.

“Lord, give me patience,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. Stiles smirked and bumped her leg under the table with his foot. Lydia maintained her exasperated façade for a moment longer before relenting into a reluctant smile. Stiles pumped a fist in mock triumph, before turning back to her, his eye jumping down to her plate.

“But seriously, even though that pizza is pointless and unappealing enough to run for congress, you have to have to finish at least two slices. Then we can put on a movie.” The little twitch of her lips into a pursed-mouth smile made him weak.

“Can I borrow some pajamas? Your clothes are more comfortable, and I threw away all the stuff I wore in Eichen,” the question alone bowled him over, but her reasoning behind it might as well have been a kick to his stomach, as the air couldn’t quite make it down into his tightening chest.

It was just a girl asking for something cozy to wear. _It wasn’t just a girl it was Lydia_. She didn’t have anything, so of course she’d wear something of his. _She wasn’t just unprepared, she was tossing reminders of trauma in the trash as if that would make it go away, even though they were relics of her long-gone ex boyfriend._ Forget why she needs clothes, be excited she wants you at all. _I can’t forget because she almost died. I can’t forget because I would have died alongside her._

Burying your pain might relieve the aching heart for a moment, but doing that just gives the pain the chance to hurt you again later. His father had told him that when they were mourning Allison, and Aiden, and Erica, and Boyd. His father and he both knew better than most how hurt could claw its way out of the grave it was buried in if you didn’t take care of the pain the first time around. It doesn’t go away on its own.

The pain had masqueraded as alcoholism in his father after his mother died. In him, it was detention and suspension and lots of talking about wasted potential.

He didn’t know how that pain was going to come back for Lydia when she turned her back on this experience, but he knew it was going to hurt like hell. It wasn’t his place to tell her that yet, though. She needed a little time first. She needed to bury the pain for just one night to pretend things could be normal again.

So when Lydia Martin asked to borrow his clothes so they could snuggle up and watch a movie, he kept his response simple.

“Of course you can. Let me go get you something.” He stood up and started towards the stairs.

“Can I have something with your name on the back?” She asked his retreating form. He froze momentarily. He couldn’t ignore her glaring vulnerabilities right now, he couldn’t take advantage. But she knew what she was doing. He had to believe that she knew what she was doing. She’d thrown out all of Jackson’s old stuff and was now asking for his.

He turned back around slowly to look at her bashfully pleased face, tinged pink at the cheeks. _She knew_. He felt his expression surrender to reveal the reverent affection that flooded him from somewhere within. Her face, he realized, conveyed the same thing.

They were both still for a moment before Lydia shot up to stand and Stiles swept back across the kitchen. They crashed into each other, kissing desperately, the motions releasing every unspoken moment. Their pulse beat as one, releasing every forcefully restrained movement between them, every word swallowed down out of fear, every syllable screamed and cried in agony and jealousy and hate, and every single second of the love, _oh God_ , every second of the stifling, suffocating weight of that impossible but insatiable _love_.

They were both so alive and broken and smart and alone in their predestined lives, but fate was not fate for them anymore. There was no fate, no destiny, no legacy of theirs that could be predicted by the stars, because they had their choices. They had bound themselves together and they had chosen life and chosen each other and that was more than he had ever allowed himself to want.

He didn’t know if it was forever, God, you can never know whether or not it would last forever. You couldn’t even know how long forever was going to be. Forever for them could have ended seven days ago in an apartment across town. But it hadn’t. And here they were.

But she was so warm against his chest, her hands raking hungrily through his hair, making his hair stand on end, making his heart race along with hers, and when he pulled away the Lydia in front of him was suddenly, blatantly, and unmistakably the same Lydia who refused to be the one to end the kiss they shared in the lacrosse locker room last fall.

Her eyes remained softly closed, the pale blue and violet veins beneath the surface of her eyelids as stunning as lupines. The breath seemed to slip out from between her lips as if by mistake and her lips remained apart, as if unbelieving that he was not still pressed up against her. When she opened her eyes, the softly dwindling sunlight caught the flecks of gold and amber among the ravines and densely cloaked forests of green that stared back at him under hooded lids. He hadn’t known it was love back then. He refused to let himself believe it.

But he believed it now.

* * *

After they kissed, Stiles had stared at her like an idiot for a solid thirty seconds, shocked into silence. Lydia had waited him out. She had been the last to speak, the one to stop him in his tracks when he was walking away. She had expected to make him blush so she could enjoy watching the flush of pink rush up the back of his neck and ears, flooding his cheeks. Despite the relative ruthlessness of her previous boyfriends and their stark contrast to Stiles, she had always enjoyed having a healthy dose of control in her relationships. And given her precocious ways and her extensive understanding of love based psychology (it had been a phase in middle school when the normal curriculum was moving egregiously slow), she always knew what to say and she usually knew what the response and reaction would be.

This time, she realized, she had severely underestimated how much she felt for Stiles. In retrospect it wasn’t a surprise, she hadn’t felt that strongly for anyone before.

She wasn’t expecting the glint of his eye and the warmth of his smile to make her feel so suddenly warm inside. She hadn’t expected her vision to zero in on the tongue that darted out between his teeth to silently wet his lips when the words didn’t come. And she sure as hell had not expected to stand up and fly into a kiss that made her suddenly realize that she was able to breathe again after a lifetime of holding her breath.

Everything that either of them was feeling was packed into that space where her lips ended and his began.

She hadn’t wanted it to end, because it felt so uniquely different among the kisses she had experienced throughout her life. She hadn’t realized it could feel like this. And that thought consumed her as Stiles pulled out of the kiss. She kept her eyes closed because when she opened them she knew that she’d be looking up at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered to her and he’d know. It was a state of vulnerability that she had avoided with everyone else. When she opened her eyes, he would know that she was his and that her heart was his to hold and his to break. It scared her. But she opened her eyes anyways.

When Lydia looked at Stiles, a roaring crescendo seemed to swell inside her mind, bombarding her with the color of his eyes and the dark freckles on his skin and...There was something new to feel. She had felt jealousy and pined hopelessly before. She had felt lust and passion and rage and affection but this was not any of those things.

This was vertigo and trembling lips. This was rough hands tilting her chin up and gentle fingertips that combed through her hair. This was breath as thick as fog and sleepy eyes and a voice that made her realize that no one had ever said her name the right way before him because her name crossed his lips like a prayer and an absolution.

When she looked into his eyes, she realized that this was love.

And then he broke the silence, saying the only thing that was left to be said between them.

“That was really smart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't believe I did it. The final full chapter is out. I actually finished it.
> 
> I would like to say thank you to all of you for reading this, leaving me kudos, sending me asks and posting encouraging comments about the story. I would have never finished this if it wasn't for you. Special thanks to my IRL friend, Catherine, and my online friends Adrianna ([demandez-l-impossible](http://demandez-l-impossible.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, @MeaninglessStar on Twitter) and Kay ([stilesbanshee](http://stilesbanshee.tumblr.com) on Tumblr) for their awesome support and enthusiasm for this story, as well as reviewers destiny919, mpiercetw, Stydiaxo, morningdew, perfectstydia, robinishooded, Sera, Lexi, bellarketrash, Stivvy, LoginOrSignUp, you_make_me_wander, stydiaotp, and everyone else who was sweet enough to leave me a message on this. You are all THE BEST.
> 
> There will be an epilogue coming out in the next couple of days (possibly a week), and when that's published, I will have made up my mind as to whether there will be a sequel story within this universe!
> 
> If you're interested in chatting or have an idea for a Stydia (or other fandom/ship) that you want written, please say hey and message me on Tumblr at [finndameron](http://finndameron.tumblr.com). OR get in touch with me on twitter (thank Adrianna for that one!) @bansheeincharge.
> 
> Again thank you so much for reading! :)


	13. Epilogue

Allison Argent was dead.

She was buried beneath the ground in a grave marked with polished marble. She was buried with her bow, her arrows, and her ring daggers, per Chris Argent’s request. It was some tradition that ran deep in their family, burying their dead with their weapons, their armor. The warriors were buried that way, at least.

She had briefly lived again within the mind of a seventeen year old banshee named Lydia Martin. They had been best friends in life, and the pain had driven Lydia to sustain Allison’s consciousness in some way. But Allison’s continued presence of the plane of the living took its toll on Lydia, nearly killing the girl. So they had severed their tether, and Allison, in all her warrior-clad glory, had ended her too-short tenure on earth.

But somehow, in some way, there was a part of her that continued to watch and observe the little town of Beacon Hills.

She was self-aware, in a strange and floaty kind of way. She knew that she was dead, yes, and she remembered her life and her two deaths, and she knew who to watch, but she couldn’t have said where she was, if someone asked, or how she could still watch the happenings on earth. Not that anyone was ever asking. She was vaguely aware of the presence of her mother, along with the other people who perished before her. But it wasn’t the same as when she was alive, she couldn’t really see them, but she could sense their presence, which was comforting. Nothing was the same as it was in life, but that was to be expected.

Allison watched over Beacon Hills, yes, but not exclusively. She let her consciousness drift over to France to check in on her father and Isaac, and sometimes she even spared Jackson a glance in London. She stopped that when she realized that his new girlfriend there bore a striking resemblance to Lydia. She watched her father and Isaac train, watched her family in France learn to trust a werewolf, and she watched as Isaac was welcomed into their family. It made her so proud, but still, she worried for him.

She watched Scott very often as well. Despite Isaac’s status as her boyfriend at her time of death, Scott had never just been her boyfriend. He was her friend, and the person who had brought her to stand up to the backwards way of her family’s traditions. He was kind and he was cleverer than anyone else seemed to realize, and he cared so damn much. She knew that he thought of her often. Sometimes, she thought (hopefully) that he knew she was watching, pausing and cocking his head to the side, eyes glowing slightly, as if he was trying to see her. He never could, but to Allison, it provided a feeling of relief.

Most commonly of all, Allison watched Lydia. She did this for three reasons.

First, Lydia had been her best friend in life, she had made Allison feel needed while also allowing her to be vulnerable in a way her family never allowed her to be. They were only friends for two years, but the friendship they’d forged had been uniquely genuine for both of them. Neither had ever really had a friendship that pierced through the superficial before.

Allison could help but wonder _what if_ every time she watched Lydia go about her day at school or at home. What if I could be alive to help you learn to keep yourself strong? What if I could be alive for you to help me learn that there is more than one kind of strength?

If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets. But Allison had never known what it was to truly want something until the thing that she wanted was to live again.

Second, Lydia was responsible for keeping her mentally alive for several months after her physical death. The time had been strenuous on both parties, but perhaps more so on Lydia, who was meant to still be alive in every sense of the word. Allison worried about her, watching as she opened herself up to that loveable idiot Stiles Stilinski, while simultaneously hardening herself in the face of trauma. She became official with her relationship with Stiles. But the next day, she secretly took up a boxing class, not telling Stiles. After her third official date with Stiles, she had graduated from those basic lessons, she turned to members of the pack to teach her how to fight, under the stipulation that they never tell Stiles that she’s training. She had formed calluses where soft, vulnerable skin had once been, but told Stiles that it was from an aerobics class that used weights and kettlebells. He believed her.

It made Allison inexplicably sad to see Lydia like this, despite her increasing self-sufficiency. Lydia had never needed to be this person when she was alive. Allison had been the one to fight for them back then. Lydia hadn’t needed to lie back then.

And third, Lydia was the one to whom Allison had relayed her final message, in the form of a whisper into her ear on the metaphysical plane of Lydia’s mind.

_I’ve been able to see glimpses of other living people, Lyds, and Isaac is in danger, I don’t know how, but he just is. Find him. He’s staying in the Argent base beneath Château de Montcornet in Ardennes, France. Please, Lydia, you have to help him._

Lydia had nodded her understanding, and cut their tether with the Chinese ring dagger that Allison had given to her. Allison watched her in earnest after she woke up, waiting for Lydia to act on her direction, but as days passed, the prospects looked more and more grim.

Allison saw the weight it put on her friend’s shoulders, and she wanted to scream at her, _tell someone! Tell anyone, just stop taking this on alone! He needs your help!_

But Allison did not have the abilities to scream such things. She didn’t have the ability to scream at all.

She watched as Lydia sat alone in her room in the earliest hours of the morning, sending out messages to Isaac over Facebook, asking him how he was and what he was doing, and did he feel safe with the Argents? When she wasn’t talking to him, she was researching, always researching, as if books and online archives alone could solve her problems.

This was not something that could be reasoned out so easily.

She watched as Lydia would take out a key and unlock the small strongbox hidden in the back of her desk drawer. Among the pictures of trees drawn on lined paper and a crumpled old Reese’s peanut butter cups wrapper, there sat the inexplicable truth that gave weight to the already heavy burden laid onto her back: Allison’s Chinese ring dagger.

It made no sense, they both knew that. Allison had been buried with all of her weapons, it wasn’t as if one had been left unaccounted for and then discovered. Especially not since Lydia discovered in on the floor beneath the bed in Derek’s apartment building. She’d found it while gathering her things, and had grabbed it with a tissue and hidden it within her tote bag without saying a word to anyone. She hid it in her strongbox when she first arrived home, and looked at it almost every day, never touching it directly.

It had come back with her from its metaphysical form. It had become real. Allison knew what the dagger meant to Lydia.

It meant that her experience with Allison had been real, not just a hallucination.

It meant that Allison’s warning was real.

It meant that the threat on Isaac’s life was real.

Most of all, it meant that Lydia had to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes All the King's Horses. Thank you all so much for all of your support, I really hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> As you might expect from this ending, I'm not going to leave you on a cliffhanger. I am in the process of planning and writing a sequel to this story, which I should hopefully start publishing within the month.
> 
> I love to talk to you all (not just about this story either!) and I'd love if any/ all of you dropped me a line on [tumblr](http://finndameron.tumblr.com) or get in touch with me over twitter!
> 
> I love you all and I thank you all once again for reading this crazy shit that I write in my spare time! :)


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